Security Guard

It's impossible to tell the whole story

so I'll mention the parts I think are true

though I know you have forgotten

since you weren't actually there.

But there was a figure clad in a dirty suit jacket

that I thought was you, although

you may have sent an imposter, once or twice.

There was never a way to avoid the train,

I lay on the tracks

daring you to run over me again and again

and you loved it, and so did I.

Sometimes I barely made it to the track on time

and you had to wait, but you were always there

idling with the force of your tiny engine

while I settled down and closed my eyes.

You stopped guarding the train,

and became the train instead.

But that's not truth. The truth is this:

I drove myself from Chicago to Michigan,

my stomach like rancid citrus as exit signs flew by

through Kalamazoo and then Jackson,

fearing the green overhead sign that named your town,

but the town always swallowed me uncomplaining.

I climbed the high stairs to your apartment

past the door that swung inward to a wall,

I could never move forward, only left or right.

It never changed, those gems arranged like ants

on your bathroom windowsill, your guitars and banjo

perched on floor stands, your futon, your stereo.

Afterward, I couldn't sleep, but you had no trouble.

You slept with your head on a mound of blankets,

with lumpy cotton blankets underneath your body, facing the wall.

I never understood your denial of comfort,

you who called me mama, and then

unplugged yourself, turned away from me

and lost consciousness immediately.

In the morning you began a series of rituals,

shaved your face quickly, talked to yourself in the shower

and then dressed for work in layers of polyester

and a clownish striped tie, for your job

guarding the grass for a monolithic building

whose name I refused to learn.

I grew to hate that uniform, not for its ugliness

but for what it meant: you were leaving

and you didn't care,

but I would have the long drive home.

I knew I would make the drive again

as soon as you asked, and you always did,

until the one day you stopped asking,

padlocked the doors, and retreated inside.

Now you crouch behind the glass

and have the nerve to ignore me

while I throw myself in your direction

and thrash my fists wildly in the air--

as if my knuckles could make a dent,

as if I actually knew how to hurt you.