Apart

So many nights I visited you alone—
For we were both solitary; I above and
dealing with the world of cars, groceries,
jobs, laundry, and you below finding your way
in the what-comes-after world, wearing your
denim jacket and embroidered shirt (stitched
by my own hand) resting in that forever pose.
We were alone and yet close, a frail six feet apart.

So many people will confess to speaking with the dead
although what they usually mean is a monologue
spoken mentally (lest someone passing by
Should hear and look at them askance)
as though the decedent were still involved with the
here and now, as though it made a difference that
I had painted the bedroom lavender or planted
a garden in your name, or forgave you for swallowing
all those pills when you could have simply walked
out the door, left the state and continued existing
somewhere else. Being far off and still alive leaves
that vital factor — hope — still part of the equation.
But when I came here, as I did nearly every night,
then there are no choices but to deal with Reality’s
skunk stink, with your lying stiff and still and nevermore
beneath the tropical grass.

And I wonder: do we continue seeking completion
and joy or are such merely the trite pursuits of those
who visit in the night?