Sheet Music for Departure

I glimpsed my last line,
turned like my father’s bed sheet,
a crisp white edge
finality suggested
by the absence of shadow.

I’ve held this pen,
at right and wrong angles,
since the day I folded
wet socks down over my shoes
to dry my ankles.

And then, licking my lips,
I almost turn the almost page
of a fabled and concise demise,
but the choice of font
stops my flow toward forever.

It proves premature,
like suggesting k’s and b’s
to a very young speaker,
or serious music
to anyone who spells
metronome with a g.

Too precarious to be in the know,
in the crowd, in on the joke,
in some kind of trouble.
He read my first book,
my dad, turned it back to me
and said I ought to write.

I got up from a nosebleed
to stop a dripping faucet,
the trail of blood in the hall
left some to imagine
the earth and I filled in
the blank.

Always and never
hang their hats on us
ever finding out
the lay of the land
is the only thing to read
between the lines.
 

Will SchmitComment