Flipping Off Cars

On the day your glass house was overthrown,
I caught your monster then let it go.
The look in your eyes said I knew it too well.
You were gone and I was gone; into nervous
          recurring Hell.
In your wallpapered clothes made of dust and wrinkles
you tried on a smile as your first tears twinkled.
It shouldn't have to be this way, I thought;
choking off the words as if they'd get lost in talk.

You never asked of me, and I never told.
I didn't give much to the ideas of getting old.
I wondered if there was more in watching and listening.
The payoff was usually better than revealing.
I'm never last, but you never go.
It's a perfect avenue for you to roam.
If we didn't know it all, what would we know?
The answer is time, space and somewhat slow.

We're encircling distances; hearts leaking trust.
A wildfire streaking along town, bus by bus.
Angry pushes of will vs. belligerent shoves.
You were flipping off cars, but you were still loved.

Just as you left and I began to set to motion
the amazing demands of diseases of devotion,
I imagined my casket placed down near an ocean
with you draped across screaming,
          "Not at this moment, you-"
as if you weren't done with your pent-up frustrations
or legal queries or personal inquisitions.
I snapped awake from my daydream long enough to see
that both sides of your coin had a picture of me.

We're encircling distances; far enough to be heard
but too close to listen for what we could learn.
Fighting armies of brothers, sisters and mothers
saw you flipping off cars
         but you were always loved.

Two lost peas in a broke-down excuse for a pod.
The lonesome ghost of a lonesome ghost we saw.
The eyes and ears have it but the spirit went bust.
You were flipping off cars and yet you were loved.