how long before
a narrative interrupted
falls, unfinished, out of memory
like a book mark from a book of poetry
left on a bus seat—he has nothing
nothing but guilt
heaved like a sad walrus
up onto the beach bellowing
a song of love, unrequited
and joyous—even now
not much is left to rescue
to lift into metaphor
like a place holder at table
for a guest, a friend
who never knew she was invited
who do you think she was,
a manifestation he muttered
into himself, a description
of another life—like honey
poured from a cold cup
a slow infatuation
slid like an echo through him,
a storm’s destruction
in her path, unintended,
unnoticed by all but him
(December 21, 2016)
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