9.03.2009

Newman

When I hear a drum fill like the one
in that last song I listened to
before pulling into my driveway
I'm forced to miss watching
a drummer keep time
on his head or chest while not playing
as me and the boys hold it down
with the strings. It's one of those things
you can't explain to someone who hasn't been there.
It's not the music I regret not having around anymore;
it's the moments like that in a circle of half-drunk friends.

But I was once accused of having
and I quote:
"a warped perception of reality."
That became a title
and another reason to leave, though
I forget who left whom that fifteenth and final time.

It's a lot like comfort food from my mother
going bad on the kitchen counter
while I'm out gallivanting in the sunlight
I claim to hate.

We'll all get over it eventually.
We haven't much choice.
That's the beauty of the thing.

-----------

"Too late," I said half inquisitively
as the mailman shut the back of his truck
after emptying the blue drop box in front
of the post office. He was pudgy and short
and looked like he wouldn't be doling out random kindness.
Wrong again, oh cynical one.
"No you're not," he said with an extended hand and
what was either a wink or a squint
in the orange glow of the setting September sun.
As I pulled away he gave me a salute
his postman's key dangling from the long chain
attached to his blue shorts.
Those words echoed in my thick skull
bouncing around all the bad ideas.
A prophet who loved his job
despite the stereotypes.
Stupendous.

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