Final Poem In Praise Of Karen Cuccio Davis: Your Legacy, Mine, I Never Mattered Poem by Dennis Ryan

Tuesday morning, August 22, 2023 at 6: 10 a.m.; Thursday morning, September 7, 2023 at 6: 10 a.m.; early Thursday morning, September 14 at 2: 08 a.m.

This poem is for Karen Cuccio Davis of New Port Richey, Florida; whether she claims it or not is another matter …

'Everyone needs to feel important. I thought again about how my mother—my real one—had said this to me one day. And she was absolutely right. Everyone has to feel that they matter. I did not feel like I mattered … and so the days were hard.'
—Elizabeth Strout, Lucy By The Sea, A Novel

" And I will never be set free
as long as I'm a ghost you can't see"
—Gordon Lightfoot, "If You Could Read My Mind", You Tube Music Video

'Still, I know you don't care … and I said, ‘What about Breakfast At Tiffany's? ' She said, ‘I think I remember the film. And as I recall, I think we both kind of liked it.' And I said, ‘Well, that's the one thing we got.' '
—Deep Blue Something, 'Breakfast At Tiffany's', You Tube Music Video

In the end, this is all that mattered: I didn't.
Your legacy, mine. For all those years I never
meant, mattered: I am, was, remain a ghost.
(You can't see me.) . It was all about you. The attention.
The regard I could hold you in, as you, conversely
could never make space for me emotionally, and so
I wrote those late poems—e.g. 'Ten Poem Installation'—
on that theme. But that didn't stop you, no—you lied
repeatedly, constantly betrayed me right up to the end
when I cut you off for good after thirty years of 'friendship'.
But what are numbers, years for anyway but to count—
I counted your constant search for advantage, your
constant self-seeking at any cost—mine—the utterly
selfish drives of all your actions from day one. (I didn't
see it then because of our involvement.) No, I never
mattered until I moved away from New Port Richey—
no goodbyes—those following five years when you were
actually responsive, caring, proactive on my behalf when
you realized who, what you had lost. But all that faded—
the twenty years since. Anyway, the twenty years since …
the old, familiar advantage-taking you reappeared, has
gotten even worse, more self-interested than ever. So,
okay, I don't matter. Fine. Read on, Karen, reader, for
this is my final poem in praise of Karen, her legacy, mine.
What more could you do to me? I stand here, listening,
attentive, know the sounds, pitches, tenors—your voices.