Neil McKay's Shared Poems

I visit her sister with her
And she visits my mom.
Something between kindness
And obligation
Both of which are new to me.

If you can call it that,
My 50 year old legs hoisting my fifty year old torso
Into the air and down with a thundering crash
Car alarms are going off
Cracks are forming in the sidewalk

I must be a sight
In my reflective yellow hoodie sweatshirt
That cost $5 at the Goodwill
My shoes that are not Trainers
Not orthotic-friendly
Not antimicrobal, lightweight, vegan runners
Not made of moisture-wicking memory foam
Or gel.
Just sneakers.

I pound up the street,
Feeling more comfortable
Among the commuters driving home
Than on a track or trail
Though Bellingham is full of tracks and trails.
I like to watch the drivers
As I gasp for breath.
Here and there, among the hands free talkers
I see someone singing at the top of their lungs
I imagine it's Jumping Jack Flash
Or I Saw Her Standing There
But it is probably not.

When I catch my breath,
I start singing in time to my steps
A slow song, naturally.
More of a funeral dirge than anything else.
Until I see someone running toward me.
He may see me as a fellow traveler,
I see him as competition
And I pick up my pace
If just for a few yards
I manage a nod
Hold my wheezing breath
Til he passes and then I slow.

I come upon a white haired man of maybe 75, walking slowly.
Wonder what song is going through his head
As I pass him. Maybe a Bob Wills tune.
Soon the 75 year olds will be the ones singing Jumping Jack Flash
That will be something to see.

I love that man as an older brother.
I too will be walking when I am his age.
No more jogging, my bones will be brittle
Like dried bamboo sticks
I nod and leave him to his Yellow Rose of Texas

Couple blocks to go, I am tired
My steps barely qualify as running
It's downhill but I'm shuffling
A middle aged lady walking ahead of me
Overweight, carrying a large backpack
Yes, she's smoking too.
She need not worry though,
I will not be passing her at this rate.

We are not children, you and I.
We know about love
and how it fills you with hope
and promises.
How it clouds your view of the future
Like a vaseline covered lens
Like a cataract

We know that what we each called love
twenty five years ago
was something else
Not infatuation
Not even lust
It was fear
and loneliness
and desperation

It was not trust
It was not benevolence
Not devotion
It was not giving
It was taking
And you and I took
And so did she and so did he.

We were all children
And we were selfish
And we were scared
And we were stupid
But now we are older
Now we know

So we didn't want to say that word
When you and I finally met
Though we both were thinking it
And it almost came out a couple times
As you were getting out of my car
Or in your bed

But we refrained
And that made us both feel
Like liars again
Like we were keeping secrets again
Like not saying it when you felt it
Was as bad as saying it when you didn't.

So I wrote to an advice column
On a website
And the answer was not what I expected
"you get to define love" was the reply
"in whatever way you want,
"It might mean lets live together,
"Or it might mean, let's not make promises"

"But Johnny," (I had signed the letter, Johnny)
"the point is to say it"
"the point is to talk about what it means"
"the point is to ring it like an iron bell"
"the point is, stop holding back"

It was good advice
And the column got much response
from readers.
Two years later, I saw that a woman
had tattooed an iron bell
in the small of her back
As a reminder of that advice
stop holding back.

There is a time capsule in the back yard at 10011 16th Avenue South
In the South End of Seattle
Just south of South Park
Off Des Moines Way South.

I buried it some 40 years ago
It contained traces of my life
Small items I thought were telling
Of what life was like on the Duwamish River

In the shadow of the Space Needle
On a hill overlooking Boeing Field
Under the landing strip of Sea-Tac Airport
Where the 727s dipped low every ten minutes

In truth, those landmarks were far away
My world was bordered by Dominic's Shop Rite to the north
Boulevard Park Public Library to the south.
We had no East and West, that's how small we were.

But we were a place and a time
And I marked that time in that place
Forty years ago
In a tin Band-Aid box.

First, write a lot of bad poems. Like thousands.
Like 45 years worth of really bad poems.
Poems with meter and rhyme but no passion
Poems with form but no function
Love poems about someone with whom you can't
Imagine yourself still with 5 years from now.
Poems about your dad's funeral that never even
mention how you kissed his corpse on the lips.
Poems about your sister that evoke the
sweetness of a life you and she never lived.
Write poems as if you were Jimmy Buffett and
All you needed was a Margarita, a pair of flip flops
And a baggie of marijuana.
And a woman, but one who is not actually present,
Someone you can miss so badly,
Someone who will come on Monday
Write those poems, pack them into shoeboxes
Leave them at your old apartment when you
get married and buy a house.

Second, listen to poets.
Real live poets, local poets.
You think there aren't any around but there are.
Poets are like cockroaches on the east coast,
Like slugs in the northwest.
They come out at night and freak you out a little.
Then sleep all day.
Go to an open mic.
You will see poets who look like you
Poets who look like 12 year olds
Poets who look like Jesus
Poets who look like poets
Poets who look like farmers
Some will have poems as bad as the poems
You left at your old apartment
But one or two will have electricity
coming out of their mouths
Listen to them and think,
"I could never write something that good"

Third, try and write something that good.
You will fail, but do it,
Then go and read it at an open mic
Try to pick one where they applaud politely
Even when your poem is about your 8th grade lab partner
Who stirred feelings you didn't know you had.
After your lukewarm reception, go home
And write a better poem
Then read it the next week and write another poem
Repeat until the open mic folks get used to seeing you
And can guess what trite cliche you will use next.
Don't worry about punctuation
Don't worry about a title
Just keep writing
You are finding your voice.

Finally, when you find your voice
Out of sheer persistance,
Write a good poem
One that says something
But maybe it says something else
Or does it?
Take that poem
And edit it with a sharp knife
Until it's half the poem it was
Throw out your favorite clever lines
Clever poems are only clever
I'm just telling you the truth
You can keep those lines in if you want
But I know you are using them like a crutch

Now you have a poem,
Read it at your open mic
The poets will be shocked
They didn't know you had it in you.
Some will ponder the meaning all night
It will be your glorious moment.

Then go home and write another.