2010; Closure?

Smoking, standing on a cement step well worn
to one man's souls, Bones contemplates the night,
hoping for answers in the chimes of the dead,
the whisper of your voice on the drafts where once
he found your word; answers he found an evening's fire
strangely reluctant in discussion at earlier cracklings.

Standing on those steps, where he once told of a not
sane
man who sat in darkness all hours of a distant dawn -
shoulders cramped, brachials ablaze, listening to Cash
walking the monophonic line, thinking thoughts, words -
he would speak, write.

Of a man who sat on those steps still, until, 6:30
in the morning; naked, but for a stolen, faded, robe
of morning's blue light; shoulders still cramped,
brachials still ablaze, still listing to Janis and her
Bobby Mcgee while sucking sour coffees, nicotines -
still thinking those same

Insane
thoughts -

Realizing he stands now at Frost's metaphoric, divergent,
wooded paths -
stands, hesitates;

To put one foot forward is to resume the journey
of society's banal existence of being, caring, for none -
not even the self.

To put the other forward? To leave that beaten path
of meandering meaningless-nesses? To pursue the weed-

Choked

Way of heart and emotion.

The dead, ever-present never left - but you?
Smoking,
standing,
listening,
he can no longer
find
your voice whispering
from wooded night's wind -

and hesitates -

_{(To someone, A Friend :: Friday, December 31, 2010)}