Those who I worked with,
Prayed with,
Laughed with,
Helped,
Was helped by,
Taught,
Was taught by,
Mourned with,
Loved
And was, I thought,
Loved by;
Those who I Disappointed
And walked away from,
Now treat me,
As I return,
Like a leper.
As though my filth
Is still there.
As though
I will somehow
Taint and soul soil them/
With my past,
Instead of lift them
With my future,
With the possibility
Brought about by the Reason
We’ve worshipped together before.
I am surprised
To have to say,
Again,
I’m sorry.
I’m shocked
That after decades
Of talking in councils
And classes,
Around campfires
And sports fields,
And sitting down at BBQ
And Thai and other meat,
That we can’t
Now meet;
That when they see me,
They have nothing to say
To me.
That their lives,
And their children,
No longer matter
To me
Who spent
thousands of hours
On.
Perhaps I
And mine
Never mattered
To them.
Should they leap
To embrace me
And welcome me
And my return?
Is that selfish?
Do I expect
Too much?
Why not?
I would.
But maybe it’s true:
You can’t return
No matter how cleansed
You’ve become.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 