If I Were a Poet

I try to make so much noise that I can’t hear anything.
I build these walls that look like progress.
But sometimes when I drive slowly in circles around the city,
there are cracks in the noise, and your voice gets through.

There’s not an inch of here that doesn’t have you on it:
That bridge is where I first touched your hand;
That bench is where we first kissed;
That house is where we could have shared a life.

I desperately pray there will come a time
when all that’s lost will be found,
and all will be beautiful again.

But it’s Friday night, and I’m spread out on the ground
nailed to the earth by gravity.
The moon overhead is a wafer so thin
that it’s crumbling into space,
and I don’t know if I’ll still be here when tomorrow comes.