What I first wanted
from this
is lost to me now.

Later, I wanted
every word to bring me back
the scent of my grandfather’s
after shave, even though
I’d never met him.

Later still, there was something
gained from the sound of gasps
and murmured assent or dissent
when I tried to explain
the scent of my grandfather’s after shave
to people I’d never met.

I learned something from chasing those
who reminded me what the scent of my grandfather’s after shave
was like, even though they’d never met him
and they were as surprised as I was
when I found myself begging them to tell me
what he was like.

Now all I get from this is a lot of late nights.
I don’t shave much. The paper
and the screen are as odorless
as they’ve ever been, and all I can smell
is old sweat on my own weak muscles,
atrophied from inaccurate use.

Still, I sit down all the time
and hope for some token
that will pay me a way
down an old road to the place
where he sits, fresh as I can imagine him,
waiting for me.

He’ll turn and welcome me
and I’ll bury my face in his neck
and breathe.
He’ll say something like
“I’ve been waiting for you”
and I’ll cry.

If the poems mean anything
now, after all this wasted effort,
it’s not what I meant them to mean
when I first sat down on fire
to burn off the past’s overgrowth,
reopen the roads
and reveal the man.

What I first wanted is lost.
What I wanted next was someone else
and now I’m losing the One I gained in his place, but
if I shut the notebook, turn off the switch,
leave the stage to the next seeker
and walk away from the jungly history
where I thought the answer lay,

what will I do then with all this time
in this flat place, cleared of brush
and not worth replanting?