Room 102

Not me. We.
Each of us pours marrow and
sinew, bone and blood through
the last and the next and
the right-there-beside-us.

Without Shakespeare there is no
Bukowski. Without Frost there
is no Clifton. And so on and
on - ad infinitum.

Without You there is
No We.

We are there, in your laughter lines,
in the sweet taste of your wife, the
tree you see silhoutted against the fat moon,
your dreams for your children,
the snot from your sneezes, aches
of unfulfillment and victories.

In your fingertips, noses,
genitals, toes, eyelashes
and foreheads -
We are there.

And your death.
We are there then too,
perhaps especially so.

We will tell you your life
in six stanzas
and a footnote.
And if we tell it just so,
You will believe us.

Picture yourself in a room full of people.
Actually, it doesn’t even have to be full -
Maybe there are three or four people there.
Maybe just two.
Now, listen to them.
You know these people; their idioms,
the way they’ll tell the story about
the boss you already know they hate.
You know who will pepper their sentences
with what words and who will laugh
at inappropriate places in the conversation.

You love these people.

Now, turn inwards.
Picture yourself in that room
with those people
you love
and feel grateful for their
presence in your life.
Feel the compassion you feel for them.
The desire to connect is so strong it
burns your skin when you think of it.

But you can’t.

Not completely.

There is more to you, to them,
than any of you can ever hope to reconcile.
They laugh and talk, unaware.
But you are aware.
Your thoughts are your own
and you cannot give them away,
cannot even fathom how to.

You watch them,
laugh with them,
say words to them.

But you are lonely.
You are lonely around these people
who you love.

Do you know that feeling?

Well,

I have never felt lonely with you.

That is why you humble me.