Projections

so this is how it is

. . .

you go for a walk

–a run, if you can–

and

the Fed-ex truck drives by

and you go to wave automatic-like

mouth turning up at the edges, already,

then you remember Leo don’t

drive it no more

–energy pushing outward unmet–

Leo died

from the Cancer

a few months back, and so young, too

–not that young, twelve years older or so–

and your hand drops

–unexpressed–

and it’s a little thing, really, but it’s a thing, all right,

a minus where there used to be a plus.

then the mail guy comes

but it ain’t Big John driving USPS snail or shine

–smart John, too–

for all his wooly whiskers

and gin blossom cheeks

Big John could talk circles around

the Literature,

–sweet John–

but Big John died, too, or maybe he retired, but Big John ain’t

the mail person no more

–and who cares? it’s just mail, but you do a little–

(a lot)

and it adds to the thing that subtracts.

and you go to the café for some coffee

–for company–

the café that hangs all the pictures of the locals

on the walls,

and all your friends, too

but they don’t do that anymore, neither,

–the friends you had MIA–

the spot where

your picture hung

is empty, now

–and maybe you are, too, a little–

a faded square of wallpaper the only

reminder

this used to be

your place.