Dear A.J. Rathbun

Dear A.J. Rathbun,
you'll be glad to know I've included
your full name in writing this poem.
I've been thinking,
these past years, about the gravity
of watermelons, and how you were
right -- they are rounder and heavier
when likened to old fat Buddha.
I see that now that I am older
and fatter (let's not call
things for the way God intended,
but for what He meant).

And I'm still sorry we drank your beer,
my wife and I drank all of your beer,
but we were thirsty in that apartment
you and I shared, and she was still becoming
my muse at the time, becoming my wife.
Lord how you ranted! And though it's grand of you
to tell only of the case of Foster's lager
I offered as an apology, we both know it's a trick,
a beautiful act so wincefully out of whack
with the way things really were.

I'm here to set the record straight.
to demystify myself in light of your stories.
Like how I used to fight in the streets
on my way home from Aggieville,
on my way back to the apartment we shared
(and the ones we didn't). Sure I hit a couple
of guys in the face from time to time,
and who reading this poem hasn't? And why
not? But if the idea of starting something
means I was the first to anger, the first
to act, then I've never started a thing in my life.

And what about your acts of bravery? Yelling
angrily into the phone at our landlord,
Bob, who had the mistaken notion he'd served
in Vietnam with my father (of all people).
I watched you listen
to his assessment of our apartment,
the parrot shit an inch deep in the kitchen
from my buddy Rodan. You remember Rodan?
He could string words together too,
but he's dead now. I told you that horrible
business like you told old Bob to bring it on and my chin
hit the dirty floor and Rodan stared at you
with that one round and urine-yellow eye.

Or how you moved all of my furniture
into that bird coop while I was in Taiwan.
Every scrap and scale I'd left behind --
the fraternity paddle, the dusty iron weights,
the letters from my family, my sweaters,
the embarrassing photos of myself and my muse,
you put into boxes and carried across town.
When my bookshelf blew apart and flew
from the gate of the truck you put it back
together so tightly its holding my books to this day.

Or best of all, how you declared yourself a poet
in our apartment, to no one and all.
Your Watchman comics sprawled across Simic,
and Simic sprawled across your poems.
The soundtrack to your life always blaring away
from my stereo at three in the morning.
You wrote them all down and tucked them away then.

Sometimes we'd hear you from my room at night.
The yellow street lamp cutting through my blinds,
and we knew you were over there, the dark side of the coop,
whispering poems to the anonymous pixies you'd shepherd
into your bed. but we could never make out the details,
the details. When we'd see a college girl on the street
in the blue mornings, tugging at her skirt, straightening
her blouse, laying on the lipstick, we'd wonder
"was she the one? Was she so near and close?" I often thought
you kept your poems from me because you knew
how little I understood of poetry; and of you.

Poetry still seems to me like those college girls
of yours. Existing so near to us, so naked
and real. To throw open your door and flood the room in light
was all we ever needed to do to be certain, but
we know we're so much better with that unquiet space
between us, you finding your truths one after the next,
while my muse and I suck happily on the last of your cold beers
in the very next room. My heart goes out
to you A.J. Rathbun for the poetry you brought,
but I should also say that bathroom sink
didn't just fall off of the wall like we told you it did.