Pine Street

In my dreams,

you’re a hermit 

whose hands shake, 

spilling tea,

holed up in the block

across from Bourque’s, 

reticent to connect,

painfully lonely. 

I visit 

three times 

before you crack 

the door.

Your apartment is tiny, 

stale, 3rd floor.

Smoke curls 

from an ashtray

dropped atop 

a stack of books.

Where have you been?

Do you know I have a girl?

The slat back chair

where you sit 

at the window 

is short a spindle.

A flutter 

grabs your gaze, 

- a bird -

your fingers twitch.

Hello, I say, Hey.

You look away.

In the center

of every dream, 

a riddle, how

to end a story 

that lost

the middle.

In my hands 

your feet are brittle, 

birdlike, your beard 

still brown.

Jesus washed

the feet of Peter,

Judas, too, 

sole to palm 

slowly,

lowered down,

in my hands

you fade

before what aches

is laved away.

The bird outside

is a just a pigeon, 

cousin 

to the dove,

the washbowl empty, 

water snaking

down 

the drain.

Outside 

your door,

trapped within 

the building’s wood, 

a pervasive must,

sorrow in the grain, 

my hand along

the varnished railing 

collecting 

years of dust. 

Outside,

fist open

to the air,

À tout à l'heure.

In bitter

summer heat

I saw your truck,

it’s rust,

watched it

disappear,

hurrying east

on Pine Street.