Kevin Pilkington

Completely Dry 

The day after she moved out

I went for a walk and stopped

next to the only tree growing

in front of the tenements across

from mine. It’s about four stories high

but not yet a novel. Birds fly up

and down its trunk like Coltrane’s

fingers on his sax. I appreciate it

being there and listen to the songs

it plays since I could always carry

a lot of guilt but never a tune.

Even in the shower if I try to sing

I sound like a crowded sidewalk

in a rainstorm.

I don’t want to go back to my

apartment yet. If I keep the windows

open anyone can hear how empty

it sounds. It doesn’t even have an old

dog curled into a tire sleeping under

the table that I can wake and roll

outside instead of making him walk.

Or a goldfish staring at me from his bowl

wondering how I can get through

life completely dry.

Now I wanted the tree to play one

of those old standards by Mercer

or Van Husen, something soft with

a melody that sounds like a bandage.

It started playing an original I had

never heard before with nothing more

than a few wings and a branch or two.

It was a tune even I could hum.

And that’s when I began sobbing, not

caring how many cars passed

or who saw me. I just stood there

looking down, staring at nothing.