Grown Meek

Not nearly chaotic;
feeling the slick
teardrops pelt
my checks,

not seeing,
just knowing
how forlorn I
am turning,
like a shift change.

Like a morphing
from midnight to
midmorning.

Like youth sticky
on tongues,
lace of teeth,
to nautical waiting.

Miserly, sharp-eyed,
slightly bowed at the
eyebrow; neatly
smattering good-bye
notes, or how I spent
the whole car ride home
weeping and wailing -

to have sought
that which you seek;
to have smiled faintly,
grown meek.