The hardened hearts of the calloused masses
stamping their cards, stampeding the halls,
numb to the blinding pain of their charge,
herding the hurting to dining room troughs.
Lightening quick and slow as molasses,
the ghostly parade of sickly shadows.
Trading visages, and voices, then names
for numbers and figures and diagnoses.
It took half an hour to braid your hair.
The recess bell rang before I began,
and I stayed to comb and weave your locks.
Told you I was the singer in a band.
You played the piano and the violin
when your legs could stand and your fingers bend;
And you left California for the state we’re in
to be a goat farmer with your, now late, husband
Suzanne,
We'll find the heart in everything.
You and me, we are
flecks of gold in the sand
in the bottom of the river bed.
Suzanne,
We’ll never amount to anything--
the dirt in your nails,
the dreams in my head.
I wish I could take you home again,
for home is just around the bend,
Suzanne
—J.Drew 2015
