Poem: Respectable Man & All the Missing Things
Respectable Man & All the Missing Things
Way deep down he knows—
he knows that he’s a
respectable man.
The brain can play tricks,
but the sinews don’t lie.
He doesn’t want help.
His whole sense of self
is built on being
the one who gives help,
not the one in need.
I can still do it!
he snaps. I did it
just fine yesterday.
But he’s not so sure:
was it yesterday?
It all seems to bleed
at the edges now.
He’s never liked when
everything touches
on the dinner plate.
It will never do
to have the peas mixed
with mashed potatoes,
smearing on the roast,
but he can’t stop it.
Some other person
keeps loading his plate
with mixed-up foods he
doesn’t want to eat.
He wishes they’d stop.
His mother treats him
like he’s a baby.
Is it my mother?
No, it’s another
woman who lives here.
Someone lives with me
who is all mixed up,
smeared into my mom.
His mom passed away.
He built her coffin.
But he knows someone
is babying him.
Someone else here keeps
loading up his plate,
everything touching.
I don’t need their help.
I did it just fine
yesterday, he snaps.
Was it yesterday?
The days are bleeding.
It all runs away
like the game where kids
go to their places
and wait to be found
by the looking one.
But the game became
too big when people
left the house and yard.
Now it’s getting dark
and kids are still lost.
He knows he has to
go out and find them.
He has always been
the man who helps out
when his kids need it.
The mothers tell him
to stay home and sit,
that nothing is wrong.
But he knows something
is terribly wrong.
The kids are out there,
it’s dark, and no one
is looking for them.
He needs to find the
things that are hidden.
It’s the game where kids
hide themselves, but he
can’t remember how
to find them; they’re lost
with the words and days.
He knows that he knows,
but he can’t seem to
find the hiding place.
The game got too big,
now everything’s lost.
He has to go look—
he’s the one who helps—
but mothers stop him.
”It’s for your own good,”
they say. ”Stay home, please.”
This isn’t his home.
They tell him it is,
but he ought to know.
He built his own house
and this isn’t it.
He is trespassing,
afraid the owners
will discover him.
”It’s fine,” the mothers
dismiss his concerns.
Way deep down he knows
he deserves respect—
he knows he’s earned it—
but they keep treating
him like a baby.
When his real babies
are out there hiding,
waiting to be found,
as darkness that can’t
be escaped settles.
They are hidden with
all the words and days
he knows that he knows,
but they won’t let him
leave the house to look.
“It isn’t safe for
you to go out, dad,”
the mothers tell him.
And they tell him that
everything is fine.
But he feels the terror
all through his body.
Will you please at least
respect that I feel this?
he begs the mothers.
He begs them not to
load his plate with food
all mixed together.
He begs them to let
him look for the kids.
He needs to look for
all the missing things
that he loves so much
before the darkness
settles forever.
