The summer leaves me slowly, and, with grace,

I march on down the way, a careful man,

toward chancy autumn at a dapper pace,

calculating ev'ry which way I can

keep good on all the promises I've made

(over all the years) to--my self--atone

for the costumes worn and the people played

in my attempts to not feel so alone.

And, pangs of guilt, like breezes through the oaks,

play dithers on my cold, sad bones--I shed,

like sleeping trees, my leafs (my self-reproach):

"This heart will find its bliss before it's dead."

I stop, and have a gaze into the dew,

and look upon the man that I'll warm to.

I love you, dear boy, I do

Now, you've read the poem, dear boy, that I wrote 

in the interest of clearing the vault

of all the treasured memories of you

that I've collected.  I made room enough

by being rid of those thoughts that only

trigger rapacious thirsts for your concept

(which ebb at high-tide and o'rflow my rim)

that kidnaps my love and ransoms it for

the quick release of intemperate pulp

on those nights I'm alone and far from you.

What is left, though, is sadness. To think that 

you are alone in spite of the smiles 

you give, and for all of your avowals

that you're "Okay." And, I long to grab your 

hand if only to pull you clear of the 

rubble of that unfortunate place that

you call home. I love you, dear boy, I do...

Guiltroversion

It’s been more than five years

since I took that man’s life from him.

I mean, he did walk into the shooting gallery,

he did know the risks of his behavior,

and I was (mostly) innocent until that week.

I mean, I was (and am) guilty of other things,

my own history is as a...

pockmarked body, covered by adhesive strips,

the color of not-flesh flesh, and remorse shows

at the edges where the dirt of my conscience

collects and refuses to be cleansed away.

And, taking his life—that requires another

bandage, a pretty big one this time (and

I thought I was innocent until that week).

I sat there, among my peers:

others, just like me,

covered in bandages

and long sleeves and slacks

and scarfs and neckties

—and everyone’s attentions were given to him.

(This was, perhaps, the first time

in his entire life that he was

given so much of anything

by folks he didn’t know.)

And, he said nothing;

others spoke for him

and about him,

and we, too,

when it was our turn,

did the same.

And we gave him so much

of our time and energy,

we risked getting caught

smoking in the bathroom,

we had lunch together,

and we worked hard together

to decide his fate.

I hear he got 80 years for his crimes.

There’s no bandage can hide that.