nineteen seventy-five.

all i've got is a picture--
it's not even mine to hold
because she won't let me have it.
it flashes by in a frame,
the crease from the original
digitized across wood paneled walls
and mid-seventies furniture.
you're there, half smiling;
your nose is thin and points upright,
not like my fathers, not like mine.
in a powder-blue suit,
ruffles at your neck,
it ages you far beyond your seventeen years,
and it makes me wonder, michael,
did you ever see the picture?
taken just days before you'd die---
i want so desperately to see you elsewhere.
i want someone to fucking talk about you
other than not being allowed to talk about you.
and what troubles me most
is our connection,
because we have none (you died so many
years before i was to be born).
but i am drawn to you.
(would it be so if you were still alive?)

at times, i feel i know your pain,
what you felt that night,
burdened by summer,
burdened by telephone calls
and not reaching the receiver
and over-exposed film,
lines at the movie theater,
cable television, or her.
i don't like to think about you there,
although it's one of only two spots i can imagine you,
on your mother's bedroom floor
or in that ugly living room,
just waiting for everything to be over.