September

It's September and like every September
decades running hand in hand, 
you come back on the breath 
of laundry soap and a song.
Why does the man remember what the boy can’t forget?
Rod Stewart sings, “It’s late September,”
and I am back in school,
a tiny bit of the man who will be
the boy who can’t forget.
You are the one who broke the seal and said,
“Begin your exam. You have the rest of your life.” 
No time to study and poorly prepared,
the test is the lesson,
a master piece submitted by the apprentice,
unfinished and unplanned, 
runs in the wet paint,
and graded by every woman who came after you.

I'll Make an Exception

It’s one thirty in the morning and I’m drinking alone

while two hundred people make noise

and smoke and drink and dance.

The band is good or loud, and wants to know

What did you think I would do at this moment?

There’s a blonde in a red dress sitting on the cigarette machine.

Not my type, I prefer quiet crazy,

the hidden neuroses that reveals itself over days or weeks

or maybe years, leaving me to wonder if I was the cause.

But, no.

I got here way too late and I don’t have that kind of contagious madness

or a treatment for it.

I’ll let this one pass by.

Every man needs a friend named Tex,

Tex, the guy who pulls the blonde through the crowd and says,

“I want you to meet this guy, he’s a great friend of mine.”

Tex solves seven problems, none of which I had two seconds ago.

I’m ready to make an exception for whatever crazy she brought.

It’s ten minutes til close, too late for another drink.

 I ask if she would like to get some breakfast.

Fifteen minutes later we’re in my car, but going nowhere.

Time to talk about kids and divorce and babysitters

without the music and smoke and a little cold air to clear the mind.  

She is in a car with a man she has known twenty minutes.

The slow hand of reality pulls the parking brake lever to vertical.

She just wants to go home.

I take her phone number and watch her walk to the red car that matches her dress.

A phone number is better than nothing, or maybe more than nothing.

I think of breakfast alone, but there’s no hunger,

just a drive home and an empty bed.  

The little red car turns ahead of me.

I sit at the light and watch her walk into the café.

The big windows and bright lights have no mercy

as everyone slides over to let her sit at the booth.

Couldn’t you have stayed crazy for just a little longer?

A New Year's Resolution

I resolve to stop driving past your house,
knowing I won't knock on your door.
Not today, maybe not.
Maybe, if I see some sign of life.
A flower pot moved into the sun or an open curtain.
Anything to entice me to your door
and ask the question I don't want answered
and maybe ask forgiveness for buckling under the weight
of a burden no rational man would lift,
but a boy would raise high and carry,
and I did. 
I have to know if you know
what you cost and what you bought.
Maybe you know,
maybe you always knew,
maybe you never cared,
maybe you never thought of it,
maybe it never mattered at all.
I did not leave.
I did not run away.
I did not hide.
I just stepped outside for air,
a boxer's minute between rounds,
just to breathe deep and stand at the bell,
gloves at my chin, ready to swing and jab.
The ceiling caved in behind me 
and you were in the wreck,
buried under debris a boy could not lift. 

So I drive past your house, 
not so far out of my way,
not so much time out of my day,
and know one day you will be there.
I will stop and act as if it was just chance.
Act as if I recognize you through forty years
and wait for you to answer every unasked question.