I never touched you, never placed my hand on your shoulder
to steady myself, pitched forward because the joke you told was too funny,
the voice you used beyond the capacity of
a mere mortal's comprehension.
I never looked directly into your eyes--
those warm, electric-blue pools
that sparkled with some secret, long-contained joke
yearning to burst free,
to shatter the banal silence.
For you, nothing was incorruptible.
You were my father, your soft, sweet, baritone
delivering counsel from a place far away, yet so near
right here, in front of me. The wisdom that was penned for you
seemed your own and I heard it coming from your lips
as smoothly and as deftly
as an old, familiar tune
an anthem for the lyrical,
a ballad for those blessed
enough to witness it.
You were my friend, your over-sized boy's clothing
hung over a frenetic, hairy body
that once was uncovered,
dancing wildly beneath the moon
on a field
near Manhattan.
You were my brother, my fellow, my inspiration
guiding me onto my chosen path,
looking behind you
and beckoning with a nod, saying,
"Come with me, follow me--I won't be too far ahead."
No, I never touched you, never felt the warmth
of your skin beneath all that fur,
like a great, friendly dog.
You never heard my voice, never shared in my sadness, my joy,
my life.
But you were in it.
And I knew you.
I love you.
