The Kind of Boy Who Could Lose Ohio

He may have lost track
of the buildings along his route,
the shapes and colors,
the sizes and the textures,

or perhaps has been
negligent to notice
construction crews
as they backdate
and weather.

He told me once
how difficult it was
to move forward
with only one cigarette
in the pack, and I replied

in the manner of a
skagged-up sideman
at a cutting session

how much I like splitting wood
in theory, but how in practice
it is too rough
on the hands.

Under analysis,
he would calmly say
he didn’t care

about the evolution
of the inanimate,
the dead wood aging
under the blank stare
of the sun,

his morning prayer
the opening trill of
“Rhapsody in Blue.”

He had once forgotten
the names of his children,
confused them with
books of the Bible
or reindeer or planets.

He wrote a book
about forgetfulness,
later abridged in
some magazine or other,

and with carpet nails
he tacked responses
to the corkboard
above his desk

until they grew
so thick and plentiful
that the nails gave way
and reams of praise
floated down around him
like New Hampshire snow.

And it is here he would
place the ending of this poem
had he written it,

leaving no net to catch
whatever scraps of life
fall from its ambiguity,
restless to move on
to the next lesson,

be it a song
or a kiss
or a smile.