jonberger

She told somebody else that she liked how I danced
so that piqued my curiosity
my interest
and my attraction.

I went to visit her dorm
and because she had trouble sleeping
occupied her attention well into the evening.
That sounds more salacious than it should.
She gave good conversation.

She was my object of affection
for many a month
but I was never her object of interest
which is an oft-repeated tale
a dance that repeats
randomly, through endless permutations
until all the attendants end up exhausted
and off their feet.

For a while there, though,
she certainly swept me off my feet.

Walking down to the pier
my sister asked an uncomfortable question.
“How long have I been dead?”
“You know I don’t like to talk about this,” I said.
“Still, it’s been weighing on me.”
“It’s impolitic.”
“Hey,” she said, “Hey! It’s my life!”
“Well…”
“I want to be more in touch with my existence.
If you can help, shouldn’t you?”
She tried to grasp me, but I was being difficult.
“I get it; I do. It’s just painful to talk about.
Your passing was really hard on me.”
“I’ll bet it was no picnic for me, either!”
“Can we talk about this later?”
The rest of our walk was silent.

It was, in fact, the last time we spoke.

When you asked if we were dating
I thought, “Shouldn’t you know that already?”
but I sighed and I smiled
and I said with the patience of a marm
that we were dating if you wanted us to be
and I guess that worked out kinda well
as we started seeing each other.

When you wondered
if we were in love
I answered honestly
to the best of my recollection at the time
and explained where we stood
and what we understood of each other
and how we felt
and where we might be going
if we could stand the strain
and go the distance.
I gave my long-range predictions
and you clearly liked the odds
since you stuck it out.

When you queried me
if we were getting married
and I thought,
“Finally! The kind of question
that OUGHT to be asked!
At last.
At last…”
and I gave you the words I hope you longed to hear
and I know I had been meaning to say
for at least seven days
(since I’d first seen the ring bill come up
on our shared account)
and all was good.

When you asked if we had ever seen Memento
I don’t know what came over me
but after that
all the questions
just came over and over again.

And over and over again.

And over and over again.

And over and over –

The filth quietly collected,
grimey and dirty and full of grease,
all around the kitchen
for what seemed like years.
All was good with the world
until the evil mop came
to dispel the peace.

With a bucket of ammonia
and a couple of swipes,
the mop and awful intentions
began its attack
on the decades of degradation
captured in that kitchen.
The mop would move
and the dregs would disappear.

Wiping and washing,
the heinous mop would bring about
the destruction of the decay all around the dining area.
It was disgusting.
How dare the mop do that!
It was malicious, that thing was.

Finally, when the germs were gone
and the vicinity was spotless
the wicked wiper went away
not to be seen again.

Its legend lives on, though
and the evil mop is still whispered about
wherever the filth lingers,
fearing for its future.

Kat, I think I lied
to you, to me
about the state of we
– of us. That’s what I should’ve said.
I always sought the easier way to say
the words I wanted said.
I wanted you so much back then
I’d far from danger tread.

And you betrayed me often,
that’s how the story went;
how I’d describe it frequently
to all the ears I’d bent.
You’d give me jam in January,
but abandon me for Lent.

So though you hurt me commonly
on occasions multiplied,
I said it before and I’ll repeat
it’s possible I lied
about degrees and expectations
and speciously amounts,
for though we broke up thrice,
twice I can discount.

You left me for an old boyfriend
from whom I’d stolen you
and then again an older one
from your old high school crew.
In truth, these sort of silly actions
should have been expected
from the kind of girl you proved
to be, in retrospective.

And I had been collecting silver bolts and screws to give
to show you how I could trust you with love I had to live.
As my faith in you grew, the screws, too, grew in shape
and when you left me finally, no bigger than a grape
was the final screw I’d offered, so little trust was shared. You hadn’t earned my faith again; in you I hadn’t dared.

So I’m sorry for bad-mouthing you,
providing the bad rap.
I was bitter and mean spirited;
a simpleton sad sack.
It’s been so many years now,
I just thought, “What’s the harm?
If you’re free, could you and me
see if fourth time’s the charm?”

I’ve told the story of going to an early show
and getting stuck in the corner
wedged in by the seats
listening to your songs
and crying
because I was bored
literally to tears.

In ensuing years,
you’ve gotten better,
I’ll readily admit.
The specter of celebrity covers a great area
and makes your accomplishments
substantial as they are
more impressive still.

When I hear you now
I can confess to weeping
for different reasons.
But there is still that early history
before your crowning achievements
when you were still barely formed
and I can speak of songs of yours
that were not as much
as they would eventually become.

I no longer feel bound by what you do
not in the same ways, at least.

You put the kitten in the box
which you feed then to the serpents
who in turn are fed to griffins
which you skin down for their pelts
which then you trade for ogre’s ochre
that you lose in warlock’s poker
where you win the Queen’s good choker
that holds the key to her one belt.

It’s the very sort of scary mess
that you will constantly process
as you seek to win caresses
of the royal hand.
Your adventures wild may be,
but while you’re out there recklessly
striving for the love of she,
endangered is her land.

So careful as you damage kitties
that you don’t imperil cities
lest Her Highness’ committees
come to take you to the tower.

For though you lust with all your span,
and she swears that she won’t unman you,
if you’re not wary, you’ll be banned.
It’s well within her power.

Love her special, love her quick.

Wax her, heat her with your wick
until it’s melted to the stick.
Aye, there’s the nub!

But if it ends, as most games do
be aware, you played it through
and you lost fair, your debt is due.

It’s time to leave the club.

Midtown. Mid-eighties. Our crew passes the other kids
before the show.
We discover cute girl
is celebrating birthday
before Billy Joel goes on.

Thus begins impromptu
a capella interactive reading
of Beatles’ “Birthday,”
despite it being nobody else’s
“My birthday, too, yeah!”
Despite hypocrisy,
it goes over well.

Differing war parties disperse
going on independent snack runs
before Billy gets banging.
Excitement runs high.

“Easy Money” has been in a movie
but nobody cared for it.
Every other song on the album
had been a hit.
“He’s got to do ‘Uptown Girl’.”
“Tell me about it.”
“‘Tell Her About It.'”
“Ah, ‘Leave a Tender Moment Alone’.”
Pizza was a block away.
We went to pick up some slices.

Well-fed and less-funded,
we headed back to the Garden for the gig.
We were having the time of our lives
in the dangerous night-time Manhattan
in the Summer of our youths.

We can never get too much of a good thing.
Life can only get better from here.

It occurs to me
that the girl in high school
who had a couple of sleepovers at my house
may have had a thing for me.

It further occurs to me
that I may not have been
in the emotional space at the time
to be able to deal with such a thing.

By the time I was ready
she had moved on to my friend.
This is the way of the world.
Mine,
at least.

We walk in the park
my father and I.

It is later days
and he is not doing well.

Other people know my father is dying
but they do not mention this to me.

Perhaps I sense this, though,
for I try to have conversations with my father
about his life, asking about his past
in ways I have not asked before.

I am seeking to collect stories.

He is responsive
but, of course, his memories are not as strong
as they could be.
He is old
but there is another factor.

“The electro-shocks definitely blocked out some things,”
he says.
“That was when?”
“I was probably fifteen, sixteen.”
I calculate the years from this: the end of Truman.
“And why were you getting shocks?”
“I was in therapy,” he explains, “I asked to be.”
“And this is what they did to you?” I cringe. “How barbaric!”
“I asked. Well,” he amends, “I agreed.
They said it was the best bet to cure me, and I did feel better after the shock therapy.”
“So it worked?”
“I guess so,” my dad shrugs.

I learn from my father in his later years
while he is dying
– though I only learn the last part
later still.