2009-03-07

Reed One (for Tiffany)

I have nothing better to do than to rise early and push my way through the fog and into the reeds, searching for my grandfather's ghost. Why do my feet get so cold so fast? I search for guidance, a landlocked lighthouse strobing the marsh. By noon it is too bright for ghosts. I have nothing but scraps of maps and handfuls of shotgun shell casings.

So I think of you instead. Come to me, my distant friend. Let us put all these dream fountains and wishing wells behind us and go to lunch. I've prepared a thermos of red wine and a brown-bag lunch for fine dining amidst the oil stains behind the storage facility. The police station is burning. Aging strippers weep beneath the trees and blinking radio towers at the edge of town. One of these roads must lead out of here, if not somewhere. Grey afternoons provide cover for our escape. I want to sit in a quiet motel room with you, watch the light fade from the window without reaching for a light switch. This darkening room is the safest place either of us has known. You're wearing black tights again. I want to massage your feet, caress your legs, and kiss the shadows of your neck. I want to hear every song you ever loved, read every book that's ever been your friend.