Poem 90

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Smoke

It was Sunday yesterday.

Oh no…
Don’t ask why the sun shines,
or why google has no information
about you
for me to finally set aside
my Sundays
for God and not
some other guy
because
it’s only natural.

It’s awful
when I spend thirty minutes
smiling at your ridiculous
limited pictures
where you’ve got a joint
between your lips
instead of a pen
for class work you may not even have.

Texas,
that must be some place
for whitepages
and other sites to steal,
to report
your private information.
I’m almost regretful
for looking
up
why you and your dad
have been MIA
these past years.

Better than death,
the unexpected departure
that many
dread,
that I did
dread
when your red car
stopped showing up at the post office
across the street right before
8AM Mass.

Do you
happen to still be around,
lurking
in the afternoon masses
and glancing around
the second floor,
hoping to spot me amongst the crowd
of youngsters?

I think I saw you
one time
after a short morning mass
walking on the bridge,
maybe
on your way home
with a black hat on.

It’s why
I thought
you’d possibly still
be lingering
the streets you grew up in,
ones you dominated
and warned others to avoid.

If not
and my illusions
are mere mirages of the summer heat
then that’s alright,
it’ll be
okay
once fall creeps in
and winter blankets me.

I’ll just forget your smoke.

c. velajune 2016

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