I think a lot about
who might call me at night,
that it might be a woman I know,
crying.
And it could be about the thing
I cry about too,
or one of the things.
Then I might tell her, I’m so sorry.
That kind of happened to me.
It’s so unfair.
He needs his balls kicked into
his empty head!
(Perhaps I’d promise to do just that.)
I’d turn the TV off
and stretch across the couch,
brush the cat and the cracker crumbs
from my sweater and imagine her
sitting on the floor in her kitchen,
knees pulled to her chin,
tear-damp fingers winding her
long brown hair into coils.
I’d empathize, I get it,
some people are so cruel!
This is what to do.
Life is about this.
Love is about this.
Survival is about this.
Tomorrow is…

(Tomorrow is another day:
the silly phrase I chant
before my eyes unshut at night,
driving home on the wet highway,
after counting,
one thousand one,
one thousand two,
one thousand three,
one thousand…
for however many seconds
I dare to measure my temptation.
But that’s between the car and me.)

Or some other woman would call:
the taller one with black hair and
the small chin that quivers
when things go wrong.
Maybe instead of the floor
she’d be sitting on a cold park bench,
but not too far from
a softball game or family picnic,
somewhere that’s safe.
And I’d check. Do you feel safe?
How are your kids handling it?
I’d ask lots of questions.
I always mean well.

There would be my own story too,
my libretto,
maybe from The Tales of Hoffman:
“Le temps fuit et sans retour,
Emporte nos tendresses.”
Or maybe not.
Librettos seem empty without their
scores, and I can’t speak French or sing.
Instead, I’d demure, I don’t get all this.
(I don’t!)
Life is unfair.
I don’t know what to do.
I’m so depressed.
Her: I understand.
That’s so sad. Tell me more.
That shouldn’t happen
to such a nice man as you.
You deserve better!
Do you need me?

(Yes, I’m leaving out one woman,
and she has left out me.
It was about telephones.
Her knees to her chin, mine to mine,
an end to time.
Where Hoffman fits:
“Time runs on and comes no more,
It goes with our caresses.”
Maybe it was about something else.)

For my mother’s funeral,
my sister hired a cantor:
lissome, handsome,
yet demure.
From a respectful distance he sang all
the hymns I knew as a child.
A bit of alter light showed
his simple white shirt,
gray pants and black shoes.
No tie.
No accompanist.
Only clear round Latin notes
raising rain to the clouds.

I could be a cantor.
I should lose some weight
and learn to sing,
but I have a nice white oxford shirt
with a button-down collar.
I’d be confident but humble.
And I’d sing the old hymns
with my eyes closed,
softly finger-tapping time against my leg:
one thousand one,
one thousand two.
I know the right distances
to stand from the alter:
close for parishioners,
a little farther for clergy,
the choir loft for a bishop.
I’d sing for souls and karma and beauty,
and for cash.
I’d sing for my own soul too,
if I ever change my mind about it—
ripe and veined enough with sins
for any grateful God to pick.

One evening, maybe, a woman will call
who isn’t crying
(isn’t fooled),
to parlay less-fragile vows.
I’ll ask her to wait on the highway
under a light,
on the soft shoulder
at milepost nine.
She’ll see the headlights
drifting in the lane,
directed by an eyes-shut crazy man
counting,
one thousand one,
one thousand two,
one thousand three,
one thousand four,
and she’ll understand why.
Because it will feel so good
when I stop.

Gavin W Sisk
Dec. 2020