Do me a favor

If I lose it –
and you know what I mean –
if I become a
stranger to myself, and
to you,
do me a favor –
don't talk to me about my
history, even if you believe
it might strike some tiny match of
memory: don't tell me that I once did
this and that, wrote poems and stories,
played in a rock & roll band, any
of it.  Don't make it worse.

Tell me that I was born in that
room, and that as
rooms go, it is perfectly
fine.
Introduce yourself as a
friendly stranger, and
make sure that I have
one good book
I can read
over
and
over.



Lake George

We sat with our drinks
and watched out the window
as the boats pulled up to
the restaurant dock

they thrummed through the mist
of a twilight Lake George
mahogany hot rods from
some bygone marina

dapper old couples
with fine silver hair
he with a captain's cap
she with a kerchief

the boy on the dock
in Izod and deck shoes
tied each boat to a cleat
valet parking, stevedore

the beautiful boats
waited like thoroughbreds
with V8 Ford engines
small flags on their bows

long heavy Chris-Crafts
from the 20's and 30's
impossibly elegant
shaming the fiberglass

drinks gone, the food came
and the shadows enveloped
the docks and the boy
and the boats at their hitching posts

the mountains were shadows
even darker, huge, lurking
porch lights across the lake
were small yellow stars

we watched the old couples
stroll back down the docks
men patting their bellies
women patting their hair

and the boy helped them step
into their long wooden speedboats
put the ten in his pocket
engines growling and burbling

I watched as they vanished
from the glow of the dock lights
and imagined their journey
across dark Lake George

How their hair became auburn
their skin smooth and firm
and the balance shifted
between plans and accomplishments

by the time they tie up
and climb the dark stairs
they're alert and hungry
for something other than dinner

there's so much to do
is that the clock ticking?
or the ice box dripping
into a zinc-lined pan?



Patricia alone after 14 years


The little one is just plain scared -
her small-ness dismays her
in the face of Big Changes
I just want to tell her
little sugar-lies until
her new life isn’t new any more.

But the older one puts her fists
on her skinny hips and defends him
and I feel so shocked and scared
that I want to tell her every dull numbing truth -
like hammering in a long nail -
an act that may or may not
be forgivable.

If I could weep just for me
I would, because in almost every way
she is me -
but when she is angry
she is so, so him.


learning to grieve


It goes against your
instincts, your
training, it is an act of
will, even though it should
be as natural as falling
asleep.

Empty your
breath in a trail of
bubbles.  You
were born here, it is not a
hostile place.

Let go, if you
can, of your need to
thrash and defy, there's
no one watching.

There.
Welcome it, and wait for the
feel of the solid
bottom.  Now you have
something to
push against.

Dave Morrison