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Almost a Friend

Rick Casillas
The Commuter

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

You in bloom, in soft red turn.
Green I think, greener than I would have thought.
I like the clock behind me, you look in its direction often.
And I think, in moments past, that maybe it was me you wanted and not the time.

And I hear you, once or twice a day.
In clatter and song, your voice rises in my seeking.
Worthy, proud, flutters of motion adrift in flight.
There are others, and they have longer necks, and louder voices that do not rise.
Crude manicured hands that shape mirrors to waste in.

But your bird has willow thick petals for eyes,
And the curve of its neck, trembles and thrums in sweet soulful ache.
Your melody is lullaby and seed, drifting, absent of effort towards me in falter blue plume.
And it’s cheek, soft as you, pink as you, but less shy.
I tell it…I say that you’re lovely, and I like your tattoos.

But for all the kindness I would rather not know you, this glad mildness will suffice,
Because I know you want the time, and have not seen me instead.

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