You Forgot to Say Goodbye

Found Poem from “Wishing (If I Had a Photograph of You)" by Flock of Seagulls

(For Vernon, RIP 11.11.83)

on Fridays we cut through the afternoon 
like a beam shot from your ray-gun scooter
brighter than the dusty Kansas summer sky
gray as old paper stuck to the drawer back  

you'd twist to shout, I’d laugh, lean into you 
swerving for the third time buzzed on near-beers
headed towards big evenings of cheap pitchers
running up stairs, over others to the dance floor
or next town six miles up the two-lane 

you never didn't make me laugh
your quirky face and half-smile like home
my sides ached from your rapid-fire wit
a misfit among boys in tooled leather belts
and one-syllable way of talking 
humorless and vapid they
never didn't make me yawn

you grew up there but didn't belong 
I grew up everywhere and didn't either 
yours the hand I reached for in the bar
on the street, down the hall 

If you'd reached for me before you left
I'd have tried to make you safe 
the way I felt behind you 
racing through our galaxy 

If I had a photograph of you
It's something to remind me
I wouldn't spend my life just wishing