The Unexpected Ethics Of Timing Poem by bradley blue jay phipps

There is

the unexpected ethics of timing, as I was
not looking. Nor am, but for the eyes, and
the color of that smile…

It has been a long time, since willing was
cradled shameless to open my backpack
and share the vertigo of my possibles. From
the over valued trinkets to t-shirts - “Been
there. Done that.” To Navajo blankets,
shorts, tattoos and my thread-bare poems
and prose. My worrisome walking shoes.
That says something, you see?

I have lost my comes a horseman boots.
Deep, reddish brown. Creased, like my
face, for they are the leather map of
my want and need. My where I've been.
I had intended to die in them under deep
desert blue skies with no marker for my
grave. Nothing but a breeze, ranging
restless, yet, free. Only then will anyone
really see. Understand me.

It is a risk to think the thoughts I have been
thinking. More a risk to speak (or write.) .
I cannot afford to lose the purse in which
we met. I have responsibilities and places
still to fathom. The adventure of my children
to reclaim, and the quiet longing of the
Weminuche whispering my blue jay name.

Still, I have not been able to purge you
from my thoughts but for moments at a time
these past weeks. I can glean the ether
more than most, and sense the weave we
have had. The stitch and tween that curled
through me the other day as you sat with
that smile in my space.

I was a helpless man, as all men are in
the presence of a Helen skipping through
their unexpected. We talked around my
questions and the slow curve of your
delicate neck extended for my drops. I
could not stand for fear of nibbling.

Are you indelible, or just a snapshot meant
to fade, in this my story? If I do not speak,
I may never know...