After Work Hour

There is no door knob

not in this room, the guest room

just a hole, it offers voyeurism

of the empty hallway.

There is one window

not blessed with curtains or shutters

but an Arizona red sleeping bag

tacked up by nails.

We have a desk, oak

and as ancient as sitting

although the chair is downstairs

tucked beneath the piano

I am on the blow-up mattress

it quivers with each strike

of our two cats,

that circle each other

like gladiators at my feet.

This is my after work hour

inside a makeshift room

where depression and I fight

over me

like Hades and Clio

who take swipes at each other

without claws.

Lightning

Gordon dies in Georgia

and I have yet to mourn —

but you are extraordinary.

He tells me this when I worry about his death

like those words are a powerful hymn,

older than Jesus,

older than mercy.

So what is my legacy at 24?

A strewn out something-something,

nothing like Gordon’s

a genuine keeper of his faith

What says the pupil when the mentor dies,

what avenues do they navigate?

(but you are extraordinary)

Good lord I do pray for Michael,

he yells out, thumps his chest

like it is a empty stump,

with ancient rings, southern sensibility.

If I am extraordinary he is of the gods.

He leaves the earth dressed

in his blackest Sunday best, bolo tie

to grace him like a silver bowed present.

So deliver me to heaven, he says. On time!

I sit outside, forcing a tear.

The raw sun sets into summer

silence and splintered lightning

is sign of an August storm,

and heaven acknowledges

it's best man’s passing.

What does the prophet do

when his Jehovah leaves him?

What's left, but to talk about how

I am extra extra ordinary.