it’s been at least two and a half years,
and i hate you so much it hurts,
but i still drive everyone home,
after the beer bottles, and smoldering glass ash trays
tuck them in for the night,
they still smoke the same brand you did,
the smell still crawls into the wool of my coat,
and makes a home there,
i am hesitant to evict.
i still find myself doing things
that would have made you smile,
the way you used to lean on my shoulder,
and tell me i was a good man,
that i had a kind heart,
and that i was special for it.
i still try to listen to people when they speak,
i still try to use a heavier class of words,
and speak softly, with strength,
i still try to count all the stars in the sky at night,
and i say a lot of things with very few words.
i am still listening for your voice,
i still need to hear you,
“You are a good man.”
and if i am or not,
whether you say it still if i ever cross your mind
i fall asleep,
and i can’t hear you
a good man is hard to find,
because it is hard to be a good man.