Thursday

(ode to Matt Haggerty)

There's a thickness to the air today, pushing back against all sound, all light;
Tugs the clock hands down; plugs holes where purple shadows
only yesterday
poured from the space where you once stood.
These thoughts that warmed the telephone I used to call you up
to share a drink, to borrow a wheelbarrow, to get a sentence past the goal post;
to hold your head.

I never cared to know how Thursday would feel after Tuesday when you closed the book. You never asked
nor even gave a single thought how I'd resent you.
. . . but it's Thursday here in East Setauket
and I must lace my boots in the thick, dull air; watch the sunlight pour like syrup through the weeping branches to the ground
and move through fractal memories like autumn leaves until the clock hands
sweep them off my face.