There is nothing worth the time put in,
nothing worth anything so much as a few words,
a glance and a mirthful nod at an old friend
(if old friends are still worth having),
and move on. Such is the plenitude.
I held on, once, to ideas, dreams;
I held the hands of people with eager eyes, imploring eyes.
I held onto sights I thought would greet me in dreams and lonely days as old friends do, unto my very death.
I never got anything out of it. It doesn’t save you from
anything, it doesn’t preserve anything of value.
What you think you hold holds you.
What you feel in the car in some square of sunlight and it’s too hot and
you’re late getting home is you fastened to some time in the past.
And to say, “Let go,” is to imply that one can just;
the cure for heartache and sinfulness is a tattoo on a guy’s arm below the band of barbed wire.
But some way, anyway, you’ve got to, just.
Like the veterans, arms blown off, but they still feel the
old hand, curled up tight and achey, shrunk up to their shoulder.
Something in them holding hard despite the broken sinews.
Tell them to just let go.
But if they did how much better would it feel?
And then it would seem like nothing more than a curious thing, worth
a glance and a mirthful nod at an old friend and
maybe two errant thoughts over very cold pilsener on a porch in June.