Here's what you're going to do:
you're going to come back home
to your not-so-small town
from the big city,
the biggest city there is,
and you're going to walk to the gym,
walk, don't drive
and don't run
walk
and give it your all
and when your body is tired
you're going to walk back
oh, did I mention you'll also move
to a northern town?
not too north but still
much norther than you've lived at before
except those two years, twenty five years ago,
just a bit to the south of that
where the June light goes all the way to nine
but not quite to midnight
and in that light you're going to walk home
and the street will smell like your grandmother's kitchen.
you're going to realize how much she meant to you
although you don't think she knew but
you're going to hope, you're going to believe she did
she knew what a mainstay she was and,
as you think these thoughts,
you're going to play a song
any song that brings you to tears and,
in the quickening breeze of a June evening,
you're going to cry.
you're going to cry a not-so-sad cry
tears for streets you'll never walk down again
and things you won't be able to tell your grandmother
like "i know it's not your fault" and "thank you for everything".
and before the tears dry
you'll be home and
here's what you're going to do:
you're going to feel the fatigue drain from your legs
and you're going to kiss your wife
and you're going to write this poem
and you're going to be sorry for your grandmother
who really did love a lot of people
but maybe didn't quite know how to show it
beyond cooking for them and nagging them and
telling them that they're very smart
without a shard of pretense
like the others had
and you're going to love her
and regret a lot.
and then here's what you're going to do:
you're going to finish this poem
and eat something
and you're going to be happy