Oklahoma Poem by Ron Willis

Ceramic Jesus shatters on the hardwood floor,
no one is saving me on this brilliant afternoon.
Heat shimmers like horses galloping across an Oklahoma blacktop,
exhaust from a Greyhound bus settles in the air, and the light
I so desperately rely on is gone and won't be back
anytime soon.

Wilted Chrysanthemums melt onto an oak mantle,
a reminder of a simpler mood from just yesterday.
Milk sours on a bedside table cluttered with keepsakes,
notes and goodbye letters I haven't the courage to read.
Slippers tossed beneath the bed are a cruel joke
by one gone away.

A hot wind rolls through the bedroom window,
leaves me breathless, with little hope of any relief.
Curtains flutter, and a door slams shut, I run to
see if she's come back, cutting my heel
on a shattered Jesus. Now I'm without, and bleeding,
in doubt and belief.

Cats in candlelight shadows, reflected on midnight walls,
where sleep is denied by ill-timed pride, Jim Beam
and ghosts. And old dog dreams in slumber
on the porch, he knows she isn't coming back.
A souvenir clock taps away time, but time isn't
all it seems.

Yesterday, or a thousand years, I don't know which,
I've been aching over words now come undone.
I read her goodbyes and I answer each word
with the heartache of a man who can't face heartache.
I didn't say goodbye, not with words or eyes
or screaming at the sun.

I awake to another contrary Oklahoma day,
pieces of Jesus still scattered across a hardwood floor.
Faith is a funny thing, it finds you sleeping, and likely
as not, tries not to wake you. Faith will threaten
second chances, when life already has walked
out the door.