Looking for a Missing Tendril
Twenty years ago, he saw him on a regular basis,
sometimes they'd run into each other,
out in the street or at the local store,
damn near every week at the open reading
tall and muscular, bald, white dude, black t-shirt, intense,
big close lipped smile
open to new ideas, but he was
definitely keyed into his own clear perspectives,
suddenly he wasn’t there; no words, no message,
nothing even passed along
last wednesday
the feeling comes in,
during these apocalyptic-pandemic days
‘who is missing in the tribal circle,’
who has lost touch
a connection exists, in his life, roots spread wide then age
they break, become brittle and break off
when the species is in jeopardy
new life blood flows out to recheck, re engage,
make sure the connections have life
so where he was, is important, if he is important, so the gnawing intuition
each time the street is passed, makes sense
tracing back the to the last time, there was no conflict, no great plan, no Canada run,
right turn made, slow drive, the new green, since the rains make it hard
to see clearly
there is no one,
not even a dog walker or an inside lamp visible
the mood begins to sadden
three Internet searches-
reveal nothing.
There are images and shadows below them
the fast movement
one that dashes behind the wall
something is in pursuit and the sensation grows
a funny feeling in the chest
a hardball size weight in the pit of their stomachs
the desire to know why, what, how long it will last
but, for whatever reason, it does
they trade lists and make up games online to pass the time
it drags on
on alert
listening to each disparate sound
every late night bark
from a distant canine
raises an eyebrow
causes shoulders to jerk
they know to be cautious
especially when going out
the masks
the unease
continues
a poison at home,
they take a permanent marker
and draw exes
on their calendars
the weeks continue to increase in number
lines of crossed out days
on occasion they speak over zoom
pass along theories and
pretend in vain,
that they aren’t afraid.
sometimes they'd run into each other,
out in the street or at the local store,
damn near every week at the open reading
tall and muscular, bald, white dude, black t-shirt, intense,
big close lipped smile
open to new ideas, but he was
definitely keyed into his own clear perspectives,
suddenly he wasn’t there; no words, no message,
nothing even passed along
last wednesday
the feeling comes in,
during these apocalyptic-pandemic days
‘who is missing in the tribal circle,’
who has lost touch
a connection exists, in his life, roots spread wide then age
they break, become brittle and break off
when the species is in jeopardy
new life blood flows out to recheck, re engage,
make sure the connections have life
so where he was, is important, if he is important, so the gnawing intuition
each time the street is passed, makes sense
tracing back the to the last time, there was no conflict, no great plan, no Canada run,
right turn made, slow drive, the new green, since the rains make it hard
to see clearly
there is no one,
not even a dog walker or an inside lamp visible
the mood begins to sadden
three Internet searches-
reveal nothing.
There are images and shadows below them
the fast movement
one that dashes behind the wall
something is in pursuit and the sensation grows
a funny feeling in the chest
a hardball size weight in the pit of their stomachs
the desire to know why, what, how long it will last
but, for whatever reason, it does
they trade lists and make up games online to pass the time
it drags on
on alert
listening to each disparate sound
every late night bark
from a distant canine
raises an eyebrow
causes shoulders to jerk
they know to be cautious
especially when going out
the masks
the unease
continues
a poison at home,
they take a permanent marker
and draw exes
on their calendars
the weeks continue to increase in number
lines of crossed out days
on occasion they speak over zoom
pass along theories and
pretend in vain,
that they aren’t afraid.
Jack Bowman - Altadena, Ca
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