For the Lists
it takes time to put down the unfinished
the piece by piece of keeping one life in motion
I create you from the edge of completeness
black and blue ink on the sheets wrapped
around me and a woman who doesn’t understand
all the time I spend with you
yes you are a way of remembering
but even more a tool of guiltless forgetting
what I give you I do not have to remember
bibles to write
saints to slander
tomatoes to crush
each line its own matter waiting to be worked
houses to pull down
floors to sweep
breasts to touch
and there is breath in the hum of distant traffic
some find pride to be in the lines
access
acceptance
accomplishment
some are terrified of ships they can’t control
they sail to windward
lean one way or another
and will capsize without
appropriate counterbalance
even after landfall their ancient tournaments
end with the stacking of bodies
one below the other and above
a roar in the distance
true fear always a collection names
but you are meant for no one but me
and if you fall into the hands of the curious
will they read you like a poem
will they discover that all things done
are struck through ripped and torn
tossed away or at best
folded under cups of coffee
to hold the stains of permanence
and will the intrepid lick their fingertips
with necessary courage and stupidity
to pull out the crisp and clean of new sheets
the ones waiting to hold ink
for all that remains
Gene Pfeiffer is an old ballplayer and communications consultant who lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
