In a quiet moment,
maybe a sunny day drive
alone,
it can slip in before I notice—
imagining myself if
he were dead.
And sometimes, unable to stop
screaming,
my vocal cords snap.
Other times—I sleep
through the night, pack a bag
and hitch-hike to Montreal.
Still
if I could go now—as if he
never happened—
to a store selling ten-year-olds
and browse through the selection:
smart ones, athletic ones,
well-behaved ones
and one in the corner—
there humming tunelessly
glancing this way and that
following light and shadows
those Elizabeth Taylor blue eyes
that one-sided smile—
I’d point and say,
him.
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