Simplicity
Mary
I crossed over
tonight
to a place I never
expected to be: inside
the Yellow Mini,
listening to Mark
talk about
his dad’s death
and his quest to bury
his dad’s key.
He even showed me
the dirt in his nails,
as if he thought
I wouldn’t believe him,
as if it really mattered
that I did.
Then he said he wanted
to show the spot to
someone and he thought
that someone could be me,
that something about me
made him think
I’d get it
and not laugh
at him or call
him crazy.
The whole time
I was listening
I kept thinking
how strange it was
to be inside
the car
that is normally
reserved
for popular people,
like maybe it was all
a mirage,
Except Mark was real
enough, gripping
the steering wheel,
turning to me,
telling me
more and more
of his story,
the words pouring out
inside the metal hull,
my ears their only
audience,
like he was performing
a symphony of sorrow
just for me.
I kept thinking
he’d eventually notice
who he was talking to
and stop and try
to lock his words
back up inside
the tough image
of himself he likes
to project at school,
but he talked
all the way home,
then even more
in the driveway.
When he said that what he did
with the key was weird
but simple, I told him
that Chopin said Simplicity
is the highest goal.
That’s what I strive for
when I play.
He thanked me
for listening and said he hoped
I’d forget about
what happened
at the party
because shit like that
happens to everyone
and that, in the grand scheme
of things, it didn’t really matter.
And the funny thing was,
as I walked into my house
later than ever before,
my mom trying
her best to hide
in the curtains,
like she thought
I’d come home
in a million
pieces,
it suddenly didn’t.