511 and 512

You wait there, where I put my glasses down,

and silently you invite me to stay.

I often won’t. I’m off to bed, or bound

for all the useless dregs that make a day.

And still your face is warm. As are your arms.

Your hand waits, waiting to be placed on mine.

So fair to me, despite the passive harms

I cause your heart when I, your warmth, decline.

You ask for much, in asking to know me.

There’s fresh grief in allowing you to gaze

upon this soul, even to let you see

beneath the bandage. Soiled, so it stays.

Dear Christus, where I put my glasses down,

one day I’ll stay—if you are still there found.

~~~

My house will stay a mess here for awhile—

until some other things are cleared up first.

For if I make a paramedic pile-

-up foul plates, I don’t deserve a hearse.

So, dirty it will stay. A buffer, be

to that path that my mind wishes I’d tread.

I will not force a coroner to see

my molding dinner by my body, dead.

And if I should make every surface clean,

and vacuum all the flecks from every floor,

I’ll know that thus I’d leave a better scene

for those who have to break open my door.

Next to the sink my soiled dishes lie.

I’ll clean them when I find the strength to die.