Elegy to Holden Caulfield
"It damn near killed me." He always had said.
But, unbeknownst to him, it damn near did.
The last night I saw him was February third
Up mumbling something silently absurd.
His hooded eyes, raised to me, were critical,
They questioned me, questioned times more clinical.
How could I apologize for other's decisions,
For late night subway rides and any visions,
That may run circles around his head, poor,
So occupied by delusions of grandeur,
He is- always- he was, for now I must use
Past tense until a better one, like a noose,
Replaces the air he formerly occupied.
I think loosing Holden feels like high tide.
He may be lying in the morgue, but I'm
The one sitting still, short of borrowed time.
The Father at the funeral told me,
"It's natural, its normal." But I know what he
Would have said. Normal people, just phony,
Just wandering, useless, listless, seeing,
But not looking. Now though, I worry
I am the phony one, caught in a flurry
Of plans and wasted days, catching no moment
To reflect, and now I see nothing as potent
As a pair of ducks caught between winter
Chill and the return of a warmer summer.
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