Little Specks of Light
Remnants of memory flicker in strip
malls on the horizon. Night blurs
commerce into colored specks
of light. They mean nothing more than
I miss you. A string of lights mark
the divide between where I stand
where the ocean reaches
infinity and the infinite expanse
of desert at my back. Do you feel
me? I pluck strings
on my guitar and make up songs
about drinking Orange Fanta
and playing Mario Brothers. The game
where we stack up pills to kill
evil viruses. We’re not very good
at it. You and me. We are
pre-joystick. Better at swallowing
pills than winning
points with them. Look
at us! I laugh out loud. A couple
of ex addicts straddling
the half century mark, drinking
soda pop and playing
video games on a Saturday
night. Feels good. The kind
of memory I always wanted and
now have when I look across
the night sky wondering
what you’re doing. Telephone
wires stretch from here
to there. I miss the weight
of a real phone in my
hand. The recoil of the rotating
dial when I call your number
and you answer every time. No
automated voice saying
I have reached a set of numbers instead
of a person. At night waves
crash to the shore. I make wishes
on the half-moon as it sinks
into the Pacific. I wish
I was never empty. I wish
we were stacking blue pills
made out of pink light. I wish
we were swapping orange
bubbles with open mouths.
The earth turns and pops the top
off the lines I was writing. I lost
my stamps so I send a song
across the dying day. Listen
to the way blue sounds when it turns
black. I write
your name on the stars
with glitter glue and crayons.
My fingers get blisters
trying to get the words
right, trying to make
you hear me.