The years have passed, and voices slowly fade
from recollection, though not yet from dreams –
I know I heard you call me as I laid
myself beneath the flood of stars agleam
and closed my eyes, and listened in the dark
for some familiar tone, some sly remark.
I heard you in the silence of the night
and still I listened fiercely in the day,
for whispers come whene’er they may or might –
in the growling, roaring, flying freeway.
And yet I hear most clearly in my blood,
the softest mutter: “I’m not kidding, bud.”
God, I miss you.