Letters

Words spill over quietly to him like

The childhood stream I can’t dam fast enough,

Confessions tumbling over my wall which

When I started, I never meant to let go.

My head skips from one thought to the next, and I know that

If this were a conversation I’d be talking way too fast,

And as it is my pencil lines are blurring and

My fingers are tripping over themselves.

In lucid moments I know I’ve got to tell someone

The truth, because it’s escaping towards his vacuum presence

Just for somewhere to go, and I throw up walls because

It’s not the direction I want.

Who is this man? He’s just some

College-age vagabond, just a person I chanced to know,

And if he has a brilliant mind and duplicate philosophy and

Smiles at me when we meet, it’s just coincidence.

Who is this man? My troubles aren’t his

Worry, his problem, his place to listen to; not for

Three more months at least; and if he

Laughed because of my letters, that means nothing.

Sometimes when my walls slide down a little and

Reason is in view, I know I’ve got to talk to

Someone, other than him, so I can breathe again

And let the thoughts in slowly, one at a time.

As it is I just set the pencil down again and

Close my eyes like I’m sitting in front of the

Sunset I don’t want to see, and take a breath and

Start to write to him again, my head a little lighter.

And if he’s just a vagabond, well

That’s alright with me; hobos all ace poetry,

And if he’s so much more as I suspect then I

Will send this letter on with love

And live in preparation for the next.


XXX--