The Poets Prayer (4-3-2010)

You have to dig for your clothing after a shower.
Its practice is all too familiar.
The stomach quakes upon discovering his shirts.
It quakes when sitting in places you’ve shared together.
It quakes at ideas of driving where he might be.
Should I call him, “How are you? Are you doing okay?”
The tightness in your being, in your throat and in your chest
is met with the greeting of intelligence, “Not today.”
“Okay,” you say, annoyed at how these situations never seem
to uncover those trying to dig into life as deeply as you.
You can wake up in the morning to a vow,
committing to service, giving into love.
Every morning you repeat the poet’s prayer,
“Love, and don’t stop.”