Merciel

The faculty all knew William by face–
soft pale visage dappled with dots,
jet mop atop fading to ash.
The sweetest boy branded with smiles,
he spent his afternoons near ducks
at the pond named after him,
outlining novels, chasing dreams
of fame with wizards and vampires
in romantic dystopias.
Alone always except for when
he dated the valedictorian–
four years they lasted, but she left.
A master of English, Math, History,
the freshman sought the sage–
the walking Wikipedia–
for wisdom on professors, parking, food.
Nobody ever saw him off-campus
except at the wake. Even mascots paid
their respects to the scholar of the bell
tower, still full of textbooks and degrees.

The noisy neighborhood now sleeps.
No foot disturbs the silent streets.
The children vanish with their moms or dads
replaced by picket signs with smiling kids.
The gardeners groom the lawns each week,
the sweepers polish the city’s streets.
The primped up houses beckon newly-weds
to settle down and start new families.

Karaoke covers
enthrall the coffeehouse hipsters
melancholy lyrics
melodrama issues
generic power chords
strike the crowd with a fierce ripple
that precious name of yours
as trite as the other guitar heroes

but girls with labret spikes
and pink mohawks fawn over you
and deem you gods for songs
like every other garbage band.
Need a drummer or a bass?
I’ll kiss ass too for a piece of theirs.
My precious poetry can’t
afford the ego’s luxuries.

I never wore that Hawaiian shirt
that one aunt bought me last Christmas,
but when he reached into his fanny pack
for the fifty cents,
I reconsidered the possibilities
the fruity shirt could offer me.

Ironic dress to amuse my friends
accustomed to my fashion sense.
A veil for my gut at the beach
until I started on that six-pack.
If nothing else, a comfy shirt
to wear on laundry day.

But revelations come too late–
our hands exchanged, the shirt is gone.
I shoo away the other pests,
drag the leftovers back inside
and prepare for a shopping spree
to fill my chest with more treasures.

The religious boast of faith,
the scientific boast of sense,
the academic boast of degrees,
the activist boasts of a conscience,
the militant boast of honor,
the strong boasts of their balls,
the royalty boasts of lineage,
the saint boasts nothing at all.

The baby boasts gobbledygook–
the grade-school kid, maturity–
the teenager, his sexcapades–
the college kid, the bongs he hits–
the working man, the stuff he has–
the middle aged, his work ethic–
the elderly, his history–
gobbledygook, gobbledygook.

I sprint
across the house
to wash
my face and clothes
to fold
some towels and dough
to scrub
a dish and wall
to make
dinner and calls
to brush
my hair and teeth
to search
for a job and keys
to throw
out trash and cats
to change
the channel and pants
to down
a pill and a mint
to breathe
the next moment
he wakes.
I ready milk
and wait
for him to sleep
again.