Waiting for Delmore - Algebra Suicide

It’s like brushing your teeth in public or being kissed in a dream by a

stranger in white shoes.

I get so confused.

Delmore’s no longer in the shower, no longer on,

no longer making a fuss.

Telephone calls come, asking if he is home.

They hang up before I can answer.

I get so melancholy when I think of his good points:

How he knew what each piece of silverware was for;

How he could light a match using only one hand;

His talent of grinding his teeth in his sleep,

Clacking out a calypso rhythm that would send me tapping into the living room.

Oh, Delmore, Delmore, your comic books still come in the mail.

The oatmeal I make for you each morning turns green well before noon.

The shoebox whimpers when it recalls your feet.

And I miss you.