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The Buried Man

In my childhood you were Wild Bill Hickok,
and I was Calamity Jane.
Your gun had 27 notches, and I rode
bareback through the hills of Dakota.

In my girlhood you were Gene Kelly,
and I was the city of Paris. You made
love to me with your feet, tapping the
soles of your shoes up and down my
stone streets.

When I was at school,
you were the words scribbled
in the margins of my notebook.
And I was the pen furious and true.

In my rebellion you were the rock
concert in Detroit, and I was the t-shirt
that was found in the wash weeks later.

When I left home you were the
70’s albums I stole from my father,
and I was the car, mile after mile,
after mile.

When I moved to the city, you were
the buildings, unapologetic and strong.
I was the Japanese tourist pressing
the shutter, rapidly.

When I became an artist,
you were the dreaming hours of
the night, that would not fit
to any page, canvas, or song.
And I was the light at the foot of the bed,
that made the dark seem less.

But you are no longer the music,
nor the gunman, nor the dancer,
nor the hours, nor the city,
nor the words.

You are the man, buried
deep in the soil beneath the cities,
trees, and playgrounds of my heart.
And I am a shovel, digging in the
earth until you are free.

For now, you are the voice,
and I am a prophet in the wilderness,
listening.