In 1981 I went with you to Jesus camp.
You stayed awake with me through the cold night, waiting for the Indians to attack
In 1983 I wrapped my arms around you to stave off the cold.
You comforted me by saying that the night was nearly over.
In 1985 I wore your loud paisley shirt, and slipped away to the city
You got me lost on the way home, our stolen goods stuffed down my pants chafing my waist
In 1987 I had a heart attack in the front seat of your car on the way to school
You opened the door and let me tumble out onto the asphalt, curious if I'd live or die
In 1989 I was born again.
You... survived. I knew it wasn't your fault.
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Poetry and prose, and chasing of ghosts
2 comments:
for the record, I DO know what a couplet is.
More, Tyson. More.
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