“INVENTORY”

Taking inventory
upon my life,
now, I lose
count.
There are too many
missing;
unaccounted for.
Friends and lovers
broke
and torn off,
burnt up,
swept away,
washed out.
A sister, too,
though they were all
sisters to someone.
I have lost
too many
and too much
in the many.
Some gone forever.
Some salvageable,
though never
to be the same again.
Not like it was.
Not like I was
when it was.
It is no longer
and I accept this,
grossly bitter
sweet. Molasses stains
sweeping down chalkboard
green. A cool breeze.
I have self pity only
because I still have myself,
so don't criticize
so much.
I have lost
the charms
that
life once fashioned.
I have.
I have lost, finally,
to the floods and fires
I heard reported
from far off
that ravaged so many
others.
I lift my tattered gossamer
and know this fog,
this spirit,
can never be sewn,
may never be recovered.
Still, I wear it.
It is sad.
But I must start over
with what I have
of myself.
And these chips,
these shards of
broken
glass. These pieces of others
I carry with me, clenched
in fists; sharp and pointed,
cutting every glimpse.
Let the waters meld them.
Let the fires melt them.
Let whatever remains
of this broken heart
be shaken and stirred
in constant motion.
Lift this vessel
to light
and see this kaleidoscope
as beautiful broken sorts,
spiralling
this rotation of earth.
Time rolling round me,
bent. My last few years;
too much.
A whole mosaic
shifting
for what I have
left.
My silly arms, swinging.
I look into the mirror
of this Montreal
flat. I see a man,
skinny, but still
with enough of a gut.
His beard has blossomed
like a rabid porcupine.
Thin lanky arms
swing at his sides.
Silly arms, swinging.
His back is straight,
finally,
though when he sits,
he still enjoys to hunch.
I am hunching right now,
though he stands straight.
We share the same eyes,
but we aren't the same.
We never will be.
I am too hitched
to our past.
He is of his future.
His, not ours.
He is going to win. I know.
This might be my last poem.
The next is his,
if he can steady
those silly arms, swinging.
He has lots to learn,
though I know enough.
Any second, he's going to walk out
that mirror
and conquer me.
I want to stay
in Montreal. He thinks
he is going home. I won't
tell him he has none left.
I won't tell him.
It's cruel.

narrative poem written on 07-22-2013 by: on mattkane.com
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