Aug 03

Missed opportunity

I wonder
where my home is;
sense of
place must be
lost to me,
l must be
missing a sense
that points me there.
The park bench
sticks to my thighs, 
sun,
uncomfortably warm on
my shoulders. 
I almost
mistake the feeling for
his head resting on them,
sitting on M’s bed. 
I miss
his arms around me,
him stepping on my heels,
hugging me goodbye
in the airport 
awkward around
our backpacks
heading for different places. 
My dad was there,
his wasn’t
(I heard him call his father
on the phone,
he was
at the office),
I forgot to say
“I love you”
tell him
all the things I’d practiced 
(I said “I love you”
he thought
I meant it in a different way),
and then
his stupid comic-book
sneakers
carried him away from me
towards his home,
away from mine.