though to tell the truth, you were speaking
to me, face-to-face, on a topic I brought up,
over a lunch I suggested,
was drafty and caught mid-autumn,
where my mortar is chinked away between rough logs.
I get in there and can’t get out. A cabin
in a clearing without a door. A log fishbowl
fashioned only for looking outward toward tree lines.
I’m in there now, hearing only the murmur
of your voice, glad for the company,
but alone and lonely. I can see the day’s colors
through the failing structure. Has this place
ever been green? I don’t think so. It’s perpetual
distraction. If I remember correctly,
I was going to try to talk with you again
about all the important life things. Birth. Youth.
Money. Sex. Eating. Shitting. Relationships.
Aging. Sleep. The Arts. War. Pissing. God. Dying.
Decomposition. I’ve scratched the list
on the walls of the cabin with a tooth I pulled.
It’s the only piece of furniture in the whole place.
Maybe we can do this another time, like before.
How many times does this make now?
No, give me the check, please. It’s the least
I can do for not showing up again.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 3.
Larry D. Thacker’s poetry is in over one-hundred-and-fifty publications. His books include three full poetry collections, Drifting in Awe, Grave Robber Confessional, and Feasts of Evasion, two chapbooks, Voice Hunting and Memory Train, as well as the folk history, Mountain Mysteries: The Mystic Traditions of Appalachia. His MFA in poetry and fiction is earned from West Virginia Wesleyan College. Visit his website at: www.larrydthacker.com
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