June 2004, Becoming Anthology

Last Lesson

The metronome ticks between us
from where it is muffled beneath
the covers of your bed.
My hands bloom bright blisters
into the otherwise silent room.
I walk miles to the station
to catch the train to your city,
gripping the cheap plastic handle
of a guitar case someone once gave
away. Mid-song, my fingers
are unable to shape the next chord.
You have become worse than
disappointed: indifferent — or maybe
you are just anxious for this
to be over. But I still would not
undiscover the touch of your hand
these months for anything. Later, back
on the train, I watch the blistering
sun slipping, disappearing
beneath the bridge and into the bay.
I think of how we meet her
coming in as I am leaving,
each of us carrying her guitar.
My eyes still water. Your eyes are
still water. Her eyes still the waters.