Alas, I didn’t keep in touch

A streaking comet of care was our love affair.

Ten years later finding letters of devotion from thee;

Sorry Bro

Too late again;

Now you will read the cache you found

Of her love letters last decade

So profound and caring,

In that print she printed.

Now you will cry like when your mama died,

Once more.

Having missed a chance for the companionship

Of forever love.

Weep, “Music Man”, weep

One of her nicknames for me.

Cry in your sleep!

Dreams are so deep;

Just last night you dreamt you would call her

Say, “Hey, how have you been?”

Just last week you heard her voice,

On answering machine cassette out of storage

Her love for you was historic warm winter porridge.

Now you will save that tape till you die;

No lie.

Feel your forehead at the chances blown

For forever romantic bodily warmth

Which leave you today lonely

Uttering the shameful, “If only” – again.

Just a shadow in your rear view mirror

With soft Brie cheese colored skin,

Missed highway exits become clearer

Only one of many gourmets we shared

And untasted by each of us.

“Hey, Jimi! It’s Me…I’m just trying to keep in-touch…”

Would say the voice-mail.

You are so sorry a man

That you didn’t talk to her much more

She told that she had Parkinson’s disease

You just found the paper she sent you.

Another ailment for her dosette box.

Oh, Mattie!!

Who protected me from your confederate mother

With the shotgun at her door

You said she didn’t approve

As if I was one of those other mutherfuckers.

Dropping you off with dignity after the ballgame,

When you had to move back in with family

Our love she refused to see

So we nicknamed her “Georgia Meany”.

Your dad flew contrails of migrating geese

After vehicles stopping to let them slowly pass,

In funeral processional.

Hearing your tender southern voice

On a past answering machine cassette,

So caring, vulnerable yet determined

You put up the brave front,

While breathing sometimes labored

That everything was alright,

Never wanting to be any trouble or burden to me.

Which didn’t cross my mind,

Just without the skills to cure Mattie,

Only morally support.

My playful Smokey Mountains-bred Rasta

Lemon-drop lover,

Her line has gone death;

Called her number just in case.

Never too much the worse for wear

With copious old believe it or not stories,

Like the last time you won a horse!

She has no more discomfort at last;

I guess you finally caught your breath.

Life is a bit lonelier now,

Even amid the glory.