Charlie, dancer

Music loudly crests your red chair,
can you hear it
reaching from your television set?

Dancer, smoker; jokers
flash, laugh, from stacked
piles, flat and black �

Laughing again, I see the houses:
the corners;
the old lemon tree;

and the closeness of your last.
Memories bring noise,
and smoke -

the telephone calls, searching
for loved ones
to come home after

too long spent
wasting breath in tongues
too fast to catch with

your hands.
Volume.
I remember this all.

The half pronounced names,
that spoke
beyond accent,

into the heart of character.
Your words
captured each person

in their own special name.
Reality,
a deadweight,

sinks into
my disbelieving detached heart:
dancer, smoker, friend �

The flowers
make it real for me;

their little note breaks my heart.