Hannibal

It is the second night of channukah.

All the doors are still open.

Years have passed since the decision

not to render beautifully—

on the trolley home I run into a doctor friend.

He has more money than me.

We pull each other out—

me his face from the book

him my feet from the bar I would drop on.

As we speak, it strikes midnight 

and it is his birthday. I go home and cash checks 

on the duct taped screen of the computer 

my parents bought me in highschool.

Certain things have to last.

The drawers with all the most precious things have holes in them

where the first letter from sara goes missing

where the years worth of half dollars my uncle sam collected 

for me, can’t call back.

It is forced to be ok—24 hours in brooklynn

whose final 3 are beyond memory

and then back without a word from anyone I saw

or anyone I left.

My girlfriend is angry I don’t love her enough,

so these days we are drifting apart.

I won’t sacrifice feeling good about my heart

as long as it beats.

Some things catch you by surprise

since you were 13—your ability to listen,

the distinction between the you and you,

a willingness to sacrifice ad infinitum for an idea of a life.

Whose revolution? And when?

I am annoyed with the flamboyant educated black men I went to school with

for loving themselves more than I allow myself.

The candles are downstairs heating the house,

and a cat with 10 fingers and trouble balancing

looks me in the eyes as I close the lights and decide

tonight is a wash, tonight will not break me through.

He asks me” have you moved on

From the road to yourself

From your striving into some great way

And some huge feeling

And something more?

“

“I do not think you have”