The Last Times

The last times are anticlimactic
a subtle finish
a slow burning build
unnoticed deep under chest
always comes back for the next one.

Like the last time I saw my favorite boss;
the last time I heard the special inflection of his voice say
“What’s up, kid?”
The last time I left the city.

The last time I wore pink knee pads,
five years old all bundled up
for the last time I fall
hard wood floor.
The last time I rode a scooter.
five months ago
on a bridge in Paris.

The last time I wore a monochromatic outfit.

The last time I called my dad.
The last time I hung up mid sentence.
The last time I felt a rush
suspended in time.

The last time I was left hanging.

Process notes:

I feel like this is not my best poetry. Not that I can really write good poetry, but when I do try it’s always in the heat of a moment. It’s always an attempt to capture a singular feeling I felt in the moment, but this time was more difficult. I was trying to capture something fleeting, kind of in the style of picture captions. Minimal sentences with just enough descriptive detail to reinforce an image, but nothing really visual. I was trying to create this sense of the last time, which we always think is so finite, and yet they happen and re-happen all the time. It feels really complete when it happens, but it always happens again. I think its an attempt to casually look at the bigger picture, to remove oneself from now just enough to acknowledge that the now will come back in another way.