Rough Draft

Visions of Robert

That morning you were sitting—when I walked in—by the windowsill
Of the Greek restaurant on the edge of Fayetteville
You were looking out the window to your awful rowing
On the worried eyeball sea as I stood still recalling the future without knowing

When you saw me, you rose, hesitantly hugged me, said, “Hello”
You kissed my cheek; “I’ve within,” you whispered, “that which passes show”
We sat down and stared across the table into similar eyes
I could almost read the menu in the hunger of your disguise

Blue-eyed son, Blue-eyed son of the midlands

There were people in the park that day, forgetting troubles and woes
A gardener pruning vines, a balloonman whistled at the children chasing crows
You told me, looking at the puddles, that you wished you knew
How they thawed like tears of flesh and resolved themselves to dew

You kept telling me your anguish, but your odd lips formed it into song
And staring, everyone in the restaurant began to hum along
A busboy passed, said, “May new sufferings come, but your lips be as they are.”
You held out your palms to me, a hole in each, and said, “They’ve not time to even scar.”

Blue-eyed son, Blue-eyed son of the midlands

We talked about your parachuting; you described it like a drug of need
“I fly, my foes beneath me” you said, “It’s so intoxicating to fall at that speed.”
“It’s like you’re alone in the universe,” you said, without pointing to the sky
Beyond the dim glass, in the dusk, a woman with a Great Dane walked by

The waitress came to take our order, like a patient angel she waited
I told her I would start as you stared at the menu and debated
Finally you looked up, said you were starving but weren’t in the mood
“Why is it at restaurants,” you said, “that people have to order food?”

Blue-eyed son, Blue-eyed son of the midlands

“The value meal comes with everything,” she said, sounding like a warning
You told her you weren’t usually that hungry, especially in morning
She tried to smile, wrote your order down, her eyes meeting mine
You said, “I want no cost spared tonight—bring me bread and wine”

You got up to use the bathroom then, the tips of waxen feathers edged beneath your coat
The waitress brought the bill, but it was your handwritten note
Under the table I saw your Sisyphus boots and the casings for a gun
I ran out in the darkness to see you flying into the blackened sun

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