Dear My Favorite Bloggers

There is a small co-op in the town over from me called Wrench in the Works which is a small little nook with books and a small stage and members can use the space for their liking. About two-and-a-half years ago I went to see my friend Becky Noonan play guitar and sing. While waiting for her to play, my then-lover (?) picked a book up off of their bookshelves called "How We Sleep on the Nights We Don't Make Love" and looked at the first poem; titled "Salat" it is a poem of only nine lines. Becky then began her show and we stopped looking at the book, but for the next couple of weeks I just kept thinking about it. What a name for a book: "How We Sleep on the Nights We Don't Make Love."

I eventually forgot about it for a while only to suddenly remember the book while walking outside one day. I came home and racked my brain to remember the titled. To make a long story short, I found a copy of the book at a used book store and I bought it. The author is E. Ethelbert Miller and in Washington, DC, he has a day - September 28th - which is also my Mom's birthday. One of my top three is titled "14th Street Station" and the page has been folded over so much that the crease is as ingrained in the page as the poem is ingrained in my memory. Here it is for you to enjoy:

14th Street Station
by E Ethelbert Miller

I want to hug you close
in subways that no longer
belong to New York and feel
the softness beneath your
dress like when you walk or
dance and the poetry is in
your eyes and I read them
aloud and taste the words
on my tongue and to speak
another language is to love
and touch you tonight or to
follow you home is to say
I will miss you whenever
I breathe in dark places or
where trains run and your
hands remain invisible on
my chest like tracks we
might one day cross