Poem #89 of 365

The boy is so young, yet so tall, and I want to
keep my knee against his
to steady his nerves.

I can hear the metal music pounding his ears,
though the plane engine is loud,
and I wish I could know what he thinks.

He gestures in kindness and is
brutally shy, this I can tell with
the slight shift in breezes
between us.

A soldier in sand-colored trousers
with a heavy-set face and
a mouth set on mute, he doesn't even
order a drink.

I want to stroke his hand, ask him
what's wrong. Give him my shoulder,
show him who's strong.

Yet, I honor his privacy and make
no drama mid-flight, he has a right
to fight this battle alone. But I stay
poised to his flinches, space between us
is inches, and welcome a time to
maybe share words.

It comes eventually, as all deserved and
desired things do. He is on the jetway
in front of me, and I quicken my steps
to say something. Looking quickly
for a reason, I spot the name on his
army-issue daypack. It is the same as mine:
Gomez. I smile without shyness, and
call out to him: We have the same name.

There, it is done. We are connected,
as I thought. And now he is given
a turn to reply. But I speak again:
I didn't think I had relatives down
here. But maybe we're related.

He smiles and says, "There's alot
of Gomezes in El Paso. You never know."

You here for good or just on leave.
"R and R" he says.

Have a good time. Take care.
I'm glad you've come home, I wish you could stay.

Which is all I had really wanted to say.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez