by John Grey
Once again, my arm, swinging, waving goodbye,
already aches like an overused wing.
I have my roots to contend with,
the flight home to see who's getting married,
who's being buried, to kiss cheeks less lovely
than your own, to float through airless conversations,
dig myself out of embarrassing situations,
quell some feuds, rekindle others.
And my arm, of course, will be constantly in action,
hand-shaking, back-slapping, even knifing
if the appropriate back presents itself.
But that's my all, an evolving mix of fun and duty,
resolution and revolution, with the odd cookout thrown in.
The talk turns to pregnancies, babies, sicknesses, operations.
I sit back, imagine relaxing in your arms,
pressing deeper and deeper into your shadow,
as sea-breezes, warm and salt-scented,
flesh out our hair, ripen our breath.. .aaaaah.
Then someone is sure to ask me, for the thousandth time,
"What are you doing with your life?"
That's when I grit my teeth and think of you.
That's where my life comes in.
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