for John Dos Passos

Clear the dusty sunshine from the ledge
and make room for elbows in linen
looking out the window at the trains

with longing and hooks of overalls
for drying after a late night in the rain
(she kissed me and we both laughed)

and the smell of dusk and rain and muted
up fiddle strings. “I can smell the smoke,”
you said, “from the place you’ve been,

tough and grainy and papery smoke.
You left your socks at the place,”
you said, “and I can’t tell why because

you come home in your shoes.”
There’d be the afterwards
in a warm dry hug when all

the memories would melt out to the
uneven floor and no niggling wish would
pool between your soft hands just

me. You’d tell how your uncle
went off into the trees one day
and he found God you hoped

but then they found him dead and
it was all rather sad cause I knew you
were talking about me it’s just if you

used those words you’d cry.

---

back