June 20, 2014

Last Rights/Writes/Rites?

You dropped pages
of legal lined legal paper
high yellow
on my lap

and said


Won't lie...I didn't know

if you meant "write"

as in
I know I'm on my way out
and want an epitaph
that immortalizes my smile
my eyes
the chaotic way my hair looks
in the morning
medusa would be proud
say a few good things
never mention that one bad thing
the "I'm re-cleaning all your dishes" thing
the "I almost called you tiger woods" thing
the "I don't really recall the one bad thing because I've been with you the whole way" thing...

so I scribble and scramble to piece together
the verbage and syntax appropriate
for the tax on your sin, the verbs about your age.

Yet, I feel like

you meant "right"

as in
that time I showed you sponge
was better than cloth
when cleaning grit and grease off
dishes left for days
folding clothes clockwise
proves more wise
than the "Gap" way
which gives you a plastic mat
that maps the folds you need to crease
when I'm sitting getting therapy
and you try to cheer me up with jokes
you don't realize how sad I am and need
desperately to convey to you may abeyance
toward your dispositions of glee
so I throw my hospital muffin at you
and watch the blue berries drip down your face
crumbs across your chest...

so I scribble laws
the rules and regs you followed
and other should follow
that rights their ship down the right path
even if the path is a series of all rights.

And still, I feel like
in my most reasonable state
you meant "rite"

as in

these days are done
the nights fade into a dark blue
cold to all clouds
and marooning the rock white satellite
all by itself

because that's how you feel

when I left that one day

to grab you a candy bar

a 5th Avenue

'cause that's all the machine

would spin out its mortal coil.