A Blind Man Misses the Sun

Tracing small town streets
she inches along in the shadows
filling thoughts between left turns
and Long Island Iced Teas
the barkeep serves me my regular
and I can't keep these hands
from paper confessions

there are as many miles between us
as days until I see you again
only patience or a Visa ATM could shorten either
but late night phone calls beneath starlight
don't require oil changes
and the days, well,
the days I use to cover pages in chicken scratch
to pave the way back to my front door

I miss you like a blind man misses the sun
can feel it on his skin
but can't reach out and see its believers
glowing their convictions for us to see

the drink is settling in
for a conversation with my liver
and these cigarettes are burning holes in my lungs
opening up the rest of me to pour out
reasons why I miss the nuances of your smile

three hours a night when reception is good
and with full batteries
and a generous calling plan isn't sufficient
I want your voice to swallow me
30 hours a day

My ears are starving without you to feed them
they're holding out for the sushi of your stories
rather than the convenient store fast food
of the movie extras
who want to discuss the weather
and the "blah, blah" bullshit
to pass the time

give me your 1 a.m. brilliance
scribble your magic tricks on postcards
and mail them daily

you are a Doors concert
in a sea of garage band wannabees
let me crowd surf to your lyrics
while the rest of the world buys
black T-shirts and CDs burned on iMacs

you make me want to speak profoundly
write like statesmen scribbling their
final speeches en route to their own funerals

king my prose with your hands
so I know I'm not wasting my time
bless my common verses into royalty
turn my ink-blood blue with your sincerity
and we'll build fiefdom of words

my neighbors at the bar
discuss police reports and margaritas
let me never be that dull
fill my lungs only with honest words
only faithful stories of you and I
visiting countries whose names people only know
from geography classes
we'll never follow these people
toward their easy separation of heartbeats

in my last days, wrinkled and endlessly forgetful
I will recall a girl
who danced like a magic trick
that David Copperfield would envy

I flip through my wallet
slip out a card to pay for my truths
the barkeep gets 20 bucks on a $12 tab
and I get six pages of poetry
the gods made alcohol so poets could be free

return to me and I am yours over miles and time
and every morning I will ask "how did your sun rise?"
mine will always rise slow and brilliant
tell me what haunts you
and I will do the same

the barkeep pours his last drink
and I try to remember things to dream, but
they slip out and leave me waiting for you