On Pessimism
       

They aren't phantoms. There are always
new things to lose on the way down
the stairs, in cars, in the person closest
to you. During a thunderstorm in 1994,

one of our friends slid off the road and out
of everything else. The losing isn't always that
dramatic though. Earlier that same day, you
had called your girlfriend who had misplaced

her pager. So when the news came and you
couldn’t reach her, I heard you wonder if she
had been riding with him. I heard you try
to fit her invisibly onto the motorcycle.

I understand it is natural to think the worst. In 2001,
I lost your working number. I asked friends. No
one knew how to get a hold of you. It happened
slowly—by 2003, I was sure you were dead. This

is to say, I, too, am guilty of this morbid inclusion. I,
too, put you in too early a grave it made no sense
for you to be in. In 2005, visiting my parents, I saw
you on the sidewalk. Our eyes met and we nodded.

After all that, this. You were so whole. I called
your old number and asked for you even though
I knew the lady on the other end would tell me
I had dialed incorrectly. I nodded at a picture

of the four of us in Atlanta after a show—everyone
still who we thought they were and right where
we left them. I knew no one
could nod back.

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Copyright © 2021 John A. Nieves All rights reserved
from Sugar House Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission