ODE TO JAMEY
(Too Little, Too Late)

You told me one day of that fearful flowing,
A chill of raw when your nerves are brushed;
Whetted stones on skin hide your secrets in shells,
Darkened waters flow rough over your unpolished life.

A word, a song, a pale verse springs a whimper or two,
Sailing a raft of worries over your cyclonic third brow;
At night you fold your days torn skin into thin gray bags,
Lined up under your watchful eye, waiting for a chance to fly.

A long line of dry beads flex in your deep corner of worry,
Over and under around your whorled fingers they roll;
A grinning bull creeper prepares to call you outside,
From a cloud a rainbow screams, it gets better. Maybe.

Have I told you recently how beautiful you really were?