Lullaby

I will write a lullaby
for all the lost and fallen
who linger on barstools until the shout of last call
I will sing a ballad
for the lonely and brave
who face the dawn with tired eyes and chagrined smiles
I will play a dirge
for the sad and scattered
who seek redemption in another's eyes
if only for a moment or a day
And I will compose a sonnet
for all of us who continue
and cling to love
if only as promise unfulfilled

Revenant

I see you
as a reflection in turbulent water
A shattered image across the rippled surface
I hear you
as a melody caught feintly across the canyon
A familiar tune, half remembered
I feel you
as a whispered breath across the back of my neck
a touch along the small of my back
I miss you
with the sad regret of all my failures
and the ache of a phantom limb

The Journey Home

You don't want to cry, not again, not any more, not in this place, so you look out of the bus window at the night sky. your eyes fall onto the Big Dipper, and follow the well known path to the Pole Star, and realize, again, that the heavens have lost their glow. You have no idea where you are, for the country darkness obliterates all landmarks, and you only know you are traveling south. Your thoughts travel back over the day, seeing the sunrise over the Grapevine, in that mad dash northward on a fool's mission, a knight in tarnished armor, already too late, though you wouldn't know that, not then.

Now though, as you face the long journey home, you can only think of her, and that you were too late. You contemplate listening one last time to her final message, but know that you won't. You don't want to hear the sadness, the despair, and the last word, "Goodbye."

You listen to the three skinheads who had, just that morning, been in prison, talking about all the pussy they're going to get when they get back to Fresno, and you wonder at the joys which must be Fresno pussy after who knows how many years in prison.

But always, she is in your thoughts. As you begin to drift off, she comes to you, and the thought of her alone, without any hope left, in those last moments. Did she listen to your frantic messages on her phone, your pleading and bargaining, the promise that you were on your way, or had the ache reached such a point that she wasn't listening.

You should have left earlier. You should have thought of something else. You should have done something, anything, you think. Of course, it's not about you. At best, you were only a minor figure in the drama. Still, you had to act, ineffectually, perhaps, but action was required, and in the end, there was no one else.

You reach into your pocket, and feel the unused ferry ticket, the last part of the journey, not to be taken. At the ferry terminal, you finally had internet access, and you received the email that she had passed away. Your classical education cannot help but think of the coins for the ferryman, to cross that final river, and the ticket in your pocket.

You have no real memory of getting from the ferry terminal back to the bus station, purchasing the ticket and waiting for the Greyhound to board. Until that morning, you'd never been on a Greyhound bus, but today, today, it seems you've been riding it half your lifetime, which is now longer than she will have ever get to live.