After Lucille Clifton (sort of)
of universes, return to me
the young man of my
early twenties—
unkempt hair billowing
out from underneath a
thrift store ball cap, t-shirt
breast pocket bulging
with Winston Lights soft pack,
smiling ironically at the photograph
he never expects to see again.
All of the atoms in my body have left me
at least twice since that moment.
My hands don't remember
what signature patterns
his were so practiced at,
and I can no longer recall
what he worked such long hours for,
who he loved
more that he thought
it was safe to admit, or
which absurd counterfactuals
he'd sit around and dream of.
I wish he was standing before me
here, just for a moment
so that I could hear him insist
(however noncommittally)
that none of these details
really matter that much.
