—ALL SINS ARE FORGIVEN IN NEW YORK CITY

 

A Crazy Person

 

Like a crazy person, 

I’m talking to you again, 

inside my head or aloud,

I’m not sure which, 

which right away must mean 

I’m a crazy person, 

though no one on the 

street’s currently looking at me, 

though maybe the reason 

they’re not is because 

I’m nuts and scare them, 

which would seem about right, 

but anyway, I’m thinking 

about you again, Goddamnit,

because it’s sunny out and

the breeze smells like honeysuckle, 

which used to make you sneeze 

all over your face and sometimes mine.

It’s going to rain later, apparently, 

according to the nifty cloud logo

button on my phone, but that 

just makes me think about you more,

how you once tromped through 

the back yard, your whole body 

sinking and squishing in the spongy lawn, 

darting here and there like a magic scarf,

what a muddy fool you were. 

Tomorrow calls for hail, 

Hallelujah. It’s our favorite 

kind of weather, or was

back when you were still around, 

that endless ellipsis of white BBs

shooting down from the sky 

in an urgent rush, as if God himself

was vomiting up a million Dippin’ Dots

he wished he hadn’t eaten.

But God’s not here right now, 

you neither, Goddamnit, 

and that’s a shame, 

a crying shame as they say.

So, in my coat pocket, next to 

my one set of lungs, I’ve got 

your collar with me, 

the one I forgot

on the day the vet put you down

but called later to tell me about, 

to come and retrieve 

the dog collar instead of you 

because you were long dead by then. 

I think I’ll always think of you, 

maybe until I’m dead, as you are now. 

It’s crazy to say that, to feel so much

about what some people might say is only a pet,

though you were far more than that, 

you were, even if it sounds psychotic 

to confess such a thing, my joy.

And so, I’ll say it today and 

will likely again tomorrow,

even if it’s thunderstruck, stormy-as-hell

Helter Skelter Watch-your-head-Lucy!

weather, the kind we both feared and hated.

I’m not certain of much anymore, 

what kind of country this is or tomorrow’s forecast,

yet I’m pretty sure I’ll always miss you, 

even if I say so out loud, on accident, 

to the old woman walking down 

Front Street, wondering, 

Who is that lunatic and 

why won’t he shut up?