Heartbreak Of The Living Poem by Jack Otterberg

Bob:
I've gone off to Arizona,
where the arid plains stretch and yawn
under a dusty air,
to find some unsung glory
that'll swing the years back in my favor.
the city buildings lick the sky
while I sit in my condo, waiting for
some irreplaceable happiness
to replace this bouldering weight.
I do not want to be forgiven.
nor should I walk across these drooling
skies
that call me back to the past.
a past, perhaps, in which you'd
sit here, on this balcony chair,
waiting as well for an inexplicable joy.
or maybe you found the joy was life.
that prairie voyage in the humble dirt
of Omaha
was all you needed— so long as you'd
find your breath dancing in front of you
on January nights.
those vivid memories never disappear—
they just sit, and sit, and sit—
lonesomely waiting in the cracking sunlight
for their edges to reveal.

nowadays things aren't clean and cell phones ring and an alien impermanence stains the city lights. I could
wake up to find you in a simple cloud, or I'd find your voice just beyond reach,
gently kissing my ears.
though, to assume you are there,
is to fall to back into an occasion of happiness
I don't feel welcomed to.