Sometimes
Stephen Ground
I wonder, sometimes
where you are.
what tears you’ve shed,
the length of your hair.
if you’re working.
in hospital.
homeless.
dead.
ever think of me?
recall fingers yellowed
by conversation,
sidewalk jams –
Canned Heat and The Band?
a gentleman’s drink,
what our souls could afford?
or do you waft me out
your office –
condo –
jail cell –
flophouse?
I wonder who’s there.
if you’ve mentioned me.
my yellow fingers,
sizzling moves,
impeccable taste,
the shattered mind we shared.
but I guess
it would be strange if you did.
I only think about you
when I laugh,
dance, drink,
smoke, or
sit idly on the
stoop, watching life
bob by in the
steady stream.
sometimes,
at best.
