Neil McKay's Shared Poems

The sun this morning,
Rises over foothills,
Until he can peek through
The peephole in my front door.

I don't understand the physics
That allow him to see
The breadth of my house,
The breadth of my life,
From such a distance,
Through such a small hole.

After a few moments
Of nonjudgemental observance,
He moves on to the next block,
Watchful for more peepholes.

That improbable canyon
A gouge in the landscape of the south end
Of Seattle, about a mile long,
Not as wide as a city block.
at it's center, an unnamed creek
Feeding into the Duwamish
River eventually,
Feeding me and Curtis and Donnie with
Trout that came from who knows where.
Fatty and fried on the stovetop.
Feeding us with blackberries and thimbleberries and
Oregon grapes my dad said were poison,
But we ate them anyway.

Much too busy
For this shizzy.

I left my bag of groceries at your house last night
And a friend of mine died this morning.
And I can't get rid of this cough.

I solved some problems today, that's my job
But it was difficult to stay focused
And now I just want to sleep.

My blood pressure was high enough
For the nurse to have to take it twice.
I meditated it down to an acceptable level.

Why does my mind turn to poetry
When I'm scared? She had the same cancer I had.
My friend who died. Why does my mind turn to you?

Wake up, Neruda, we have questions
Were you poisoned? How did you die?
What will your bones tell us?
Are there truths to be extracted from your marrow?

Neruda you thought you would die of love
Or you hoped you would. But it was not that way
And so you died of communism and loyalty
We will search your remains for the truth

But we will find what we already know
Truth does not lie in the bones
It merely travels through your body
With the air you breath, the food you eat

At best, we will find out that
The bones of a poet are made of dust
And the truth is that all poets
Kill themselves eventually.