Seattle

Do you remember walking downtown Seattle?  The aromas of,
  of course, coffee,
                       filling every space, mingling with all that rain to come, rain that
                                                                          had been-all that damp.
                                                                            And we ate pizza, Chicago style,
Italian style, whatever style because pizza was my favorite, along with you.
     And everything was affordable because we had no knowledge then of
                                            families or budgeting or mortgages. 
We
were
kids playing house.  Sort of.  Except that
                                                                 then I was never any good at it.
                                                                               We went
                                                                               when grey was turning green       
and we, too, were still so
green
and
at night, your arms around
                            me, long,
                                  like the branches of all those trees
                                  in that sad but promising state, surrounding me when
                                   I’d cry, my tears natural there where it rained all the
                                                       time.  My
                                                                   mood dreary
                                                                                       as
                                                                                       any winter in Washington.
                                                                                         No sunset noticeable in                
a place where no sun shines
and so I didn’t see we
                                  were cleaving but for a time
                                                           because Broadway plays and bookstore
                                                                           browsing were all that lay on the
horizon of my still young heart.
                                                 A life planned to echo youth and a hope that
                                                                                          you would always be my haven.
I saw Jesus in you,
                         you know.
                                        When time after time and trip after trip, you carried
                                                         me home and watched me sleep.  When
                                                                                      we sang in church and
                                                                                                           hiked mountains of forgiveness,
weathered headaches and hangovers,
roommates and pour the wine
and philosophical talks past the wee hours and I translated poetry into
French but couldn’t translate my own slurred language into sense.
                                             And your patience took me through.
                                            And I remember everything.  Things I shouldn’t
                                            And I don’t have a clue who you have become
                                                                                                                but
those memories form imagination and it’s not hard a stretch to find you well.




At Bluebell Books and accepting award from Hyde Park.


I nominate C Rose