We didn’t visit his house yesterday;
every time I go there with him
I’m in between-times,
seeing souvenirs from the past,
and my first memories of knowing him,
and possible futures, the parties
held there with loved ones,
now here and those maybe in-waiting,
the babies coming thanks to
his siblings, all singing
the old songs around the table.
But when I visit the house presently,
I feel out of step, as if the
between-times are too near
to touch, or to reach,
which makes reality sometimes
both boring and confusing.
Why do I feel this way?
He is now well-dressed
due to his mother’s dictations,
yet today they are too busy
with other things to visit,
so we go home after rehearsal
at the Temple,
one hour traveling for a 45-minute
the songs are coming through,
and the times are often changing,
here and between every single line.