the blank malaise

i found him sitting in a long drift stare

asked him the deep question with my eyes

huddled in his silence waiting on it

the fear, the longing, the warm summer dawn,

waiting on the answer to a panic scream.

i buy him McDonalds; we throw rocks in a stream

like little kids—only we don’t, i never speak

and we never move from that spot. he yearns.

he wants to know something. his eyes drift

wildly in the sky, seeing stars behind my head.

his hands are limp, palms up, in his lap.

one childhood afternoon, he took a shit

in the woods—such as there were, in suburbs—

then pale guilt cast a pallor over him for days.

it didn’t feel this way a couple years ago,

he thinks: he can’t remember; i’m looking away.

i’m pulling back; up; look, i am partially a star

and the pieces of me will be galaxies again

someday, you know; so then my focus drifts

away from things that happened, and will again

ad infinitum, miniature lives repeating without end.

it doesn’t help him, of course. we are still here

sitting in his blank malaise, gathering ourselves

for the inevitable march of life and time.

i’ll find him here again, i suppose: we’ll stand,

brushing off our pants with a knowing look

and proceed into the pallor of our days

leaving what we left silently behind.







june 2023