11/28/2020 Poetry by Scott Silsbe Eric Sonstroem CC It’s Over Nobody to talk to, but that’s ok. I’ve got these walls. And this watered-down glass of something. I’m good at this, I think. As long as I don’t get thinking about this, that, & the other. And if I do—well, my policy is to have the thought, acknowledge it, & move on. Whether or not that’s a healthy way to deal with it, I can’t say for certain. But it’s just how I am. I’m just trying to live—to survive. Where Do You Live Again? I met Patty at the cemetery at 8 o’clock in the evening. I didn’t know exactly where I was going. But I found Patty at the gates on Dallas, I parked, and we set out for a walk. Patty told me that the fireflies should be putting on a good show but that it wouldn’t start for an hour or two yet, so we’d have time to catch up. We were in the city, but near the big park, so nature was on display for us there in the cemetery—we saw deer and turkey and even a fox, who crossed our path in a loping fashion. We found a mausoleum tucked back in a corner of the cemetery and set up shop on the steps, breaking out beers and a little chocolate bar Patty brought to share. There was some news to discuss, but we started talking about our old friend, Tony, and the stories about him started taking over. I told some funny old stories about Tony and I was laughing and before I knew it, I was crying and I didn’t know if they were tears of joy or grief but I guess it didn’t matter. The fireflies started up, just as Patty had promised and so did the mosquitoes—I could feel them sucking my blood out of me. Because it was June in Pittsburgh, you could hear fireworks being shot off all around us. And we talked about photographers for a while and I told Patty about how my dad, a man of many hobbies, had said that if he had pursued an artistic calling, it would have been portrait photography. And we talked about Teenie Harris and Patty said she once had a series of Teenie Harris dreams and I thought about how once I had a series of Richard Brautigan dreams for a while. And I told Patty about my road trip to see the path of The Johnstown Flood, from the manmade lake down to the city of Johnstown and then up to the cemetery high on the hillside with its massive monument to the unknown dead. And then we talked about David McCullough and about his great books. And Patty asked me, “Where do you live again?” and I laughed. It shouldn’t have been a difficult question to answer, but it was at that moment. And when we left the cemetery, I got in my van and rolled the window down so Patty could hear the Ellington song on my stereo and I turned it up and Patty started dancing there on Aylesboro Street, dancing in the moonlight across from the cemetery. Scott Silsbe was born in Detroit. He now lives in Wilkinsburg, Pennsylvania. His poems and prose have appeared in numerous periodicals and have been collected in the three books: Unattended Fire, The River Underneath the City, and Muskrat Friday Dinner. He is also an assistant editor at Low Ghost Press. Comments are closed.
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