DECADES LATER, FOR MY LATE FRIEND STEVE

(Photo by S. Sepp, from Wikipedia)


All these years after your death,
I’m told
that everyone knew
how I felt about you,
though I never breathed a word
to anyone, not even you –
everybody
in the class we took together
chronically;
even your lover Bob,
apparently, those nights
I slept on your couch,
way too drunk
to go home. He knew
what I was drowning
and was kind to me,
and made no confrontation.

Years later,
when I had a lover
of my own,
you reappeared,
and newly single;
you brought poems
and photographs
that found their way
into the paper
where I worked.
You worked
at the drugstore
at 15th & Spruce.
I’d stop by
to say “hi,”
have a soda; we’d both
keep it light.

I would hear
that you were dead
before I even had a clue
that you were sick.
It was so sudden
in those days, the “new disease”
nobody really understood yet –
swooping down
the way a hawk would
on a squirrel.

I’d no longer looked at you
as I once had;
I’d still had no idea
that you knew.
You must have –
everybody else did,
so they told me.

I wonder,
when you came
to reconnect,
if you hoped
I might still be free.
I wonder
if you didn’t know
that you were ill yet.
I wonder
if I dodged
a bullet.

And I wonder,
if I had been free,
and you had known
and told me,
if the knowledge
would have stopped us --
old friends
just crazy enough
to die for love.


-- © 2008 by Jack Veasey


All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's permission.

This poem appeared previously in Issue 9 of the literary magazine Fledgling Rag,. Thanks to Editor/Publisher Le Hinton.

MR. MARTIN

Mr. Martin was my high school typing teacher
At an all-boy Catholic school.
He was also the first man I ever loved.

Right after last period,
I’d stop by to see him before I left school.
It never occurred to me
That anybody else
Might think this strange.
I’d babble about nothing
While he wiped the writing
Off the chalk board, banged erasers,
Put the plastic cover
Over each machine.

I never wondered
What he thought of
My devotion. Everyone I knew,
My family included,
Treated me as if
The notion that I might have any feelings
Were unthinkable. I just expected him
To do the same. I never imagined
The pangs I felt
Showed in my eyes.

He wasn’t a big man.
His cheeks turned bluish
In the afternoon
From stubble whose replenishment
Impressed me. He wore his short black hair
Slicked down, smelled like
A cigarette, rolled back
His white shirt sleeves.
He’d often stand
And watch his students pound away
With forearms crossed
Over his chest. I never thought
He saw me watching him.
When he’d bark
Instructions at us,
It would always strike me
That he sounded like
A gangster on TV.

Of course, the other kids in class
Raised the first questions
In the cruelest way they could.
One asked him to say
That he would see me later
In the locker room,
And, thick head that he was,
He did, in front of all of them.
I felt as though
He’d slapped me. He could tell
Something was wrong,
But it took him awhile
To figure out exactly what.

When he got married,
I went through several reactions,
And they puzzled even me.
I could discuss them
With no one.
I felt like I was losing
My connection with him,
Though I’d still see him
Each day. I was hurt
He didn’t ask me to the wedding.
I wished I could show him
I was happy for him, though
That wasn’t quite the truth.
I felt like I should give him a present,
Though, thank God, I didn’t.

I had a girlfriend, too,
Though mine was a “beard,” as they say,
That I was using
To delude myself.
When she (wisely) broke it off with me,
I panicked. I even swore out loud
In front of Mr. Martin.
He objected to
My language – he’d already
Started distancing himself –
And told me not
To come to see him anymore.

I stayed home from school
The next day, claiming
That I was sick.
I was amazed
When the phone rang,
And it was him.

He asked why I wasn’t in school.
I repeated my lie.
He said, with anger,
“What about tomorrow,
And the next day,
And the next?”
I heard myself blurt out,
“I didn’t think you’d care”
And then he answered,
“Well, I do.”

I went back to school
The next day – though, from then on,
I’d only visit him
On rare occasions.
When our eyes met,
It was awkward.

I began to live my life
Outside of school – outside
Even my dreams.
I began to do things
I’d denied I even
Thought about.
I learned that love can hurt you
Even worse
When it’s expressed, even
Returned. Eventually, I left
High school
And home.

As for Mr. Martin,
I have no idea
If he’s still alive,
Although he gave me
My first evidence
That I was.

-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated without the author's written permission.

SUPPORT

You sit with me before my surgery
And stroke my hand, and softly lend support;
Awhile without a word, yet you report
A wealth of subtle sentiments to me.
The nurse pops in, and says that the I.V.
May pinch me; I don’t let my face contort,
Wanting to seem brave and polite. We court
The best blood pressure with infused tranquility.

It’s time to go. The doctor shakes your hand
As if we’re at a sports event. I say
“I love you,” as you do, with confidence.

They wheel me off. Though I wear no gold band,
I feel your presence near me when I fade.
I’ll wake wrapped in your silent eloquence.

(C) 2005 by Jack Veasey


This poem appeared previously in Wild Onions XIX.

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any manner without the author's written permission.

Wild Onions, by the way, is the literary magazine of Hershey Medical Center -- where I underwent this surgery.

SAME NAME, DIFFERENT PLANETS

SAME NAME, DIFFERENT PLANETS

When you were small, I was your father’s bud;
We hung out all the time. I was around
More than your relatives. You knew the sound
Of my voice on the phone. I was not blood;

You never called me “uncle,” but I would
Bring gifts for you. Monster movies, I found,
Held you rapt all afternoon; you rewound
“the good parts” to watch them again. You could

be quite funny, sometimes. One day, watching
“Nosferatu,” you told company it
dated “from before people could speak.”

Now that you’re grown, your Dad reports the sting
He felt when you called me a “fag” at sit-
Down dinner, when my name came up – a leak

Of your new attitudes. You always knew
My story. I was never anything
But friend to you. But you’ve revised your view
Across great distance, not based on remembering.

Your family moved down South in your teens.
Your Dad and I remained in touch by phone.
Amazing how a young man’s life careens
Through changes when he separates from home.

I wonder what you’d call me to my face.
You claim to be above hate based on race.
I know that my behavior’s not to blame.
Ironic -- we still share the same first name.

-- © 2009 by Jack Veasey

All rights reserved. This work may not be reprinted or duplicated in any way without written permission from the author.