it’s not the secrets you tell
but those you keep
tucked inside
that little wooden box hidden under the bed
or behind the books on the shelf in the hallway
what whispers
do you share only with your eyes and hands
not with me
I can hear you thinking
and see that look behind your blue eyes
you have journeyed far away from me
I reach for your hand to draw you back
smell the scent of diesel and blacktop
I hear the distant rumble of thunder

** for Uncle Marty – Martin Kerekes – we will miss you