It’s when the ghost or angel
whose lank long dirty hair
drooping yellow mustache
and bloodhound gaze
full of sorrow or reproach
some secret he cannot
know or speak but only is

It’s when this angel or ghost
in his ripped bloody jacket
in the bar standing on the table
the smoke of our laughter
swirling unfelt through him
in the delivery room watching
in the classroom the bedroom
as our heated bodies heave
standing on water off the port bow
on the wing of the jet staring
through the small bright glass
greasy hair unmoved in fatal air

It’s the moment when
this demon ghost or angel
with no motion of slack arm
or shift of unblinked gaze
opens his cracked mouth and
into our deafening crash of lives
as if he has just missed
some important point
says as if to himself
as if we all listen
Wait a minute

No one was listening
and everyone hears
We all turn his way and
for the first time we see
In that moment the stillness
as we wait for his wonderful
terrible secret after which
nothing will ever again
be different or the same

It is always that moment