I'm driving to the boat with Jimmy again.
He likes the blue-and-white striped sweater
I gave him yesterday, that nautical look.
But he's still twitching, tapping his feet,
driving me crazy with all his You knows.
Neither of us wants to talk about
how he tried to kill himself last month.
Jimmy's my wife's cousin, someone I barely know.
He's been with us for months now,
helping in the garden, in the house,
but the therapy's not working.
How could it? He doesn't even know
his own body has left him, waking up
in sweats, twitching, stabbing the ash-trays.
Whenever Jimmy calls from the VA in St. Pete,
he tells me he hasn't met any friends,
that no one will tell him what's wrong,
that he doesn't know when he'll come home,
things will work out, but I feel like I'm lying.