A Kindred Spirit's Poem
An NPR story recently introduced me to Richard Blanco, a poet who read some of his work at Obama's most recent inauguration. During the NPR piece, he read "Killing Mark." I share it today, because it's right up my alley as a worry wart. Also, I'm often impressed with those who blog daily, who manage to find some little tidbit that's worth sharing on the blogosphere every single day.
So. Here's my share for today, gentle reader. You can find more of Blanco's amazing work in his book, Looking for The Gulf Motel.
"Killing Mark"
His plane went down over Los Angeles
last week (again), or was it Long Island?
Boxer shorts, hair gel, his toothbrush
washed up on the shore at New Haven,
but his body never recovered, I feared.
Monday, he cut off his leg chain sawing --
bled to death slowly while I was shopping
for a new lamp, never heard my messages
on his cell phone: Where are you? Call me!
I told him to be careful. He never listens.
Tonight, fifteen minutes late, I'm sure
he's hit a moose on Route 26, but maybe
he survived, someone from the hospital
will call me, give me his room number.
I'll bring his pajamas, some magazines.
5:25: still no phone call, voice mail full.
I turn on the news, wait for the report:
flashes of moose blood, his car mangled,
as I buzz around the bedroom dusting
the furniture, sorting the sock drawer.
Did someone knock? I'm expecting
the sheriff by six o'clock. Mr. Blanco,
I'm afraid ... he'll say, hand me a Ziploc
with his wallet, sunglasses, wristwatch.
I'll invite him in, make some coffee.
6:25: I'll have to call his mom, explain,
arrange to fly the body back. Do I have
enough garbage bags for his clothes?
I should keep his ties -- but his shoes?
Order flowers -- roses -- white or red?
By seven-thirty I'm taking mental notes
for his eulogy, suddenly adorning all
I've hated, ten years worth of nose hairs
in the sink, of lost car keys, of chewing
too loud and hogging the bedsheets,
when Joey yowls, ears to the sound
of footsteps up the drive, and darts
to the doorway. I follow with a scowl:
Where the hell were you? Couldn't call?
Translation: I die each time I kill you.