There’s a
storm in my heart
for the first time
since he was little.
It’s different every day for supper
now that we are the same.
He’s got a call.
Others went on to the shelter
but not him.
No sir.
No how.
He hears the voice too.
I would have saved him that tug
that pull.
I would have saved him
the sleepless nights.
When they were stubborn
he had to work harder.
His time is not his own.
Not now.
Not anymore.
We are the same,
he and I
and I’m sad.
I hoped he’d be deaf to the voice,
that voice
that won’t take no for an answer.
That voice will lead him
blind and stumbling
through deserts and desolation.
But that voice will also
never let him fall
never let him fail
never get him lost
in the sea or on the shore.
It is a hard life,
this life of the listener.
I’d hoped he would be spared.
But quietly
I’m glad
to have a fellow traveler.
(About a third of this was inspired by the predictive text feature on my Kindle. It isn’t enough for me to make it a “predictive text poem” but enough that I think it is worth noting.)