He reached out to touch you once
but you were gone just like before
so I asked why he kept reaching

with all the sweat on his brow
and the tears in his shirt
and the holes worn in the soles
of his old Nike sneakers
he couldn’t answer

I asked what kept him going
if not the burnt black coffee
from roadside diners or the
sticky wads of deep-fried dough
and he didn’t have an answer
for that one, either

I asked him why he didn’t
just head back home, where
his recliner sat at just
the right angle so there was
never any glare on his
42 inch television, even at
4pm and even though he had
a big west-facing window

He didn’t even try to
rationalize, and instead
just started hiking for to
reach another time and so


you’d better wait up a bit
because if that’s not love,
then there ain’t none
in this world, anyway

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