but he sets the table anyway.
By the phone,
he tries to think of better words to say.
Lets it go,
like fading, fleeting hours of the night.
It’s as though
the avenues that lead to him aren’t right.
This is the blanket covering his feet,
the insecurity that feels complete,
The crumpled style never fit to stay,
this is the part that he was meant to play.
In a bar,
he holds a humble whiskey like a rose.
At the floor,
he washes all the wisdom to his toes.
on tests and scans and inner bleeding stings.
Through the night,
he’ll drink to watch these baseball players swing.
This is the scene so quivering to tell,
the bitter taste of mediocre hell.
The vaunted veil that’s hampering his sight,
this is the poem that he was meant to write.
In a field,
no one’s there to hear him hit the ground.
At the sky,
he casts his eyes but all he knows is sound.
In a church,
a minister pays tribute to a life,
to a man
who leaves behind a family and a wife.
This is the final painting that we sell,
a congregation caught beneath a bell.
A passing throng of deacons soft as wings,
this is the song that we were meant to sing.