I Always Will...Rodger

Written by: John Heck

Such an interesting color, Rodger -
Green - like our mysterious calico eyes?

An idiot savant submits
into me - a blooming
garden of emerald delights? Like our
first encounter - regulated and raw (green).
Drawing our hunter-hued
curtains closed and tittering
in kelly green giggles;
until formidable patriarchs
silenced our chartreused lips
into a tongue-tied, 
sign-languaged stupor.
See them, Rodger?
The lovers, the leprechauns and the liars. 
See us? Inexperienced (green)
Grasping irregular four-leafed clovers 
possessing obsolete magic.
Jaded were the lucky shamrocks
we clutched.

Well - tickle and curiously cuddle -
the liar.
Crow and envy (green)
the algae-covered bastard!
One who endeavors to smell like
scented mint tea bags;
enviable for the general public -
hardly odiferous enough to 
stain viridian dejected eyes 
into a sculpted misunderstanding.
Our edacitious folding 
exhaled like the script I wrote.

Like dumbed-money (green)
or infantile idiotisms?
Like relationships that snap - 
like crisp Romaine lettuce
or fresh Tuscan peppers;
fractured within the claws 
of the dumb-founded?
Servile flattery - a riff
you oft times sang yourself
to relinquish the untrained phobic serfs
into hiding? Like us?
Convulsing and caressing,
with meteors in our pockets,
you then tenderly (green) 
shattered inside me.

You died last year, Rodger.
In January 2008, 
does a St. Patrick's Day aura count as a color?
Swimming naked
in the pea-souped Chicago River.
Your willowed eyes.
My pining heart?
Funny, as a poet -
much as a pundit may try 
to patiently maintain supple 
security - can a budding man
spill enough tears
for the someone he thought
was a saged (green) veteran?
One who would stay?
Why is that?
Why did I think that, Rodger?
Callowed and unripe, (green) surely, was I.

Rodger, (green) apple of my eye
don't fret - unseasoned and recent -
I loved you.
Stunned, stammering and sprouting (green)
I wrote this poem for you.
I never pen peacock pretentious. But -
you'll never see this ode...will you, Rodger?
Rich in my 
lost memories 
of you.
So immature -
when Pandora's pliable (green)
tongue swallowed my
common stupidity
into an unpolished,
burgeoned travesty.
I now weep amongst the shamrocks.

You were such the innocent novice then.

Look who's the infantile idiot now.