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when the forensics team
(each besuited in a
crisp white jumper)
pried open the coffin
of Pablo Neruda
all that they found were
the bones of a man
named Neftali Basoalto
(lightly desiccated)
and a short note
which read
"Gone dancing.
Back at..."
but the bottom part
was missing
so the forensics team
scratched their heads
and did a slow pirouette
like white tops
revolving

The spades (for it must be done by hand)
will tremble, then shiver into worms,
but soon enough they will unearth his box.
They will find a great ripe apple
and inside it a woman
and she will erupt into parrots
(they don't flock, it's cacophony)
and the colors will paint everything into brilliance.
Facts and minutiae they will not find
and truth remains always glowing
behind another layer
and another
and another
and the poet's
smile will wash over them
like a breeze,
refreshing after their exertions.

Wake up, Neruda, we have questions
Were you poisoned? How did you die?
What will your bones tell us?
Are there truths to be extracted from your marrow?

Neruda you thought you would die of love
Or you hoped you would. But it was not that way
And so you died of communism and loyalty
We will search your remains for the truth

But we will find what we already know
Truth does not lie in the bones
It merely travels through your body
With the air you breath, the food you eat

At best, we will find out that
The bones of a poet are made of dust
And the truth is that all poets
Kill themselves eventually.

Today’s kindness
Required no favors
Required no friendship
Required no affection
Required no wealth
Required no fame
Just a bird
On a branch
Singing

“Let’s get out of the house,”
I said. You agreed.
No destination in mind
just a stir-crazy jaunt into town.
I wanted to offer something
“We’ll walk in the park or downtown.”

As I drove us to town
you found out a few of your friends
were having lunch at a place;
we stopped in, chatted a few minutes,
walked on.
As ever, you were glued to your device.

I took a cell photo of you
at the town square,
hunched and thumbing in sun-silhouette
beside the fountain’s water jets
that were time-stamped into globs;
a rosy lens-flare UFO hovered nearby.

I wanted to say something to you
something meaningful, helpful
I don’t know when I’ll see you again
and we’ve hardly spoken in the five months
we’ve shared the same roof.
But I stepped around artificial pith and platitudes.

We walked a bit more
looked over a restaurant menu
chatted about sticking to your guns,
then you found your opportunity.
“Can you take me to TJ’s?
I’ll stay there tonight.”

I don’t mind, I don’t blame you.
You’ve learned to be an opportunist.
It’s an adaptation that serves,
given that you don’t drive
and your friends, I imagine,
are wary of your characteristic pandemonium.

After I dropped you off, I wondered
how many such aimless encounters,
how many hours’ “chillin’”
it would take to counter
the teeth-gritted silence
I served you these many months.