What’s Left

I sit here stuffed into this overstuffed chair, legs crossed, bundled up in jacket and hat though it is warm in here. I am not. I am always cold. Through these same eyes, blue and glittering, steely direct, I look out onto this room, through the same eyes I looked out as a wild boy over 80 summers ago. Body was sore then too, from somersaults, sidewalk scrapes, bee stings. I stank of boy sweat, all heated up from running after, running through, running from, tumbling, hiding, shouting, chewing gum, pissing off bridges with my friends to see how far, how far, it could go, into the dark green below, the sky flickering in the water. I looked up at the sun, squinting, like I squint now into this room through these old eyes, squinting up at the sun through my boy eyes, the world bright and full.

Around the room they sit huddled close, my sons, my daughters, my wives, my lovers, my friends, other humans, humans other than me, their bodies full of blood, hot, red. I have looked out of these eyes onto many bodies, my own, my children, my lovers, the body of the earth, the body of the sea, bodies of thought, anger, passion, bodies of abandon and thrill. They glow around me, my companions in this room, the others sitting here, they glow with blood, flushed in cheek, peach breast against pressed cotton, hints of perfume, full lips laughing with clear eyes blue like mine.

My blood flows there, plumping out cheeks, pushing forth beard stubble on my boys. They have time, time before they sit dreaming, as I do, of my little place where I brew a coffee and snap on the radio to listen to the stories, where I brush my cat, and add a shot of brandy to the cup.

Nothing to do but wait until the brandy works its way to my brain and my world becomes a dark breast suckled.

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