so it begins.
Thom in a studio somewhere
And here he is, a softness amidst cables, each one
a part in explaining him; each one a link to me
of the only sort we have: a kind of plugging in.
His life is not tangled up in here, but follows him around:
a friendly ghost that only he can see, left at the studio
door—it has lived quietly on his behalf for years.
I own him, you see, and even own the everyman
shoes that give away the actual wearing in the soles,
the photoshoot jumper worn thin at the elbows.
We could traipse, me and the rest, to the plaque raised
for him, but we won't. We could tread his steps, read his name
but that is all, the only solid thing he's left for us
of worth. It is possible to go too far back there, you see,
and bump into an actual truth: His freshface thoughts
in a workbook, his raised hand, too-big shoes.
But here are the faces of his own children
mouthing daddy through the studio glass now, here,
knocking furiously on the soundproof door.
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