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Cathy and Tricia and I sat in their father’s kitchen
as Nana and Papa and Uncle John talked downstairs
over a dog – cute enough I suppose.

Def Leppard hung in the air, and I sang the wrong lyrics
to make them laugh. Then we talked about Jackie
and their mom – how hard it was.

I told them they should come up to the lake
with their grandfather next time, and they said
they should, they should, but they never did

I wondered, about our blood, about the ways we are the same
about the ways we are not.
Love is a choice, that’s all – I decided

Elton John came on the radio, and I saw Cathy
still standing there, looking tired – so tired
like she lost a year and could never find it again

Tricia was playing with her hair, feathering
and twirling and considering hairspray, maybe
though she was beautiful enough without.

I heard Papa call me down, “Time to leave!”
Gave them hugs and kisses and said,
“See you soon.”

The saddest sort of unintentional lie
we tell for the sake of love.`

I met Laura on a Tuesday
in a large open space
full of sunlight

She was carrying a bag half-full
of newly purchased books
and talking to Dawn

They were talking about a city
about a boy, about a car
about a night – not long ago

I was watching the sun
pour in and wondering
if I could ever be a boy
they would talk about.

There was an accident,
Dawn said, and Laura just turned away
a bit. So we talked about Shakespeare
or Biology – or something completely irrelevant.

I forget what.

I would tell you the secrets of little girls
talk of kisses, of walks on beaches, of boys
and boys to come – I would, I would
but some secrets are not mine to share.

If you must know, then listen behind the shed
where they snuck to watch the boys smoke
or at the mall outside the lingerie store
where the boys giggle as they pass

If you can not live without knowing
run – run down to the beach on a hot summer night
and stand just outside the candy store
where the taffy is being pulled and watch
the little girls heads loll back sweet
in cackled glee

If you are so small – so sad, so lost -
that a secret is like a scab in need
of picking – then wait in the grocery store
beside the hygiene products
and all will be revealed

or not.

For the love of trees, I tell you
they are fine. We had a powwow
and talked about the bad old days
when there were fewer of them

There are fewer now, you say?
No, that’s not true, there are more now
than anytime in the last hundred years

Scarcity is growing scarcer,
but trees are not. The trees are good
playing frisbee, eating cheese, mocking people
with fat dogs full of shit.

We made plans to go to a comedy club next week
if you want to tag along.

It must be poetry month,
I saw a grackle eating a potato chip
a squirrel watching a newt dance under a log
a fat feral cat fidgeting under a pigeon
a tree gripping the wind title with a broken branch
an awkward skinny kid in a volkswagon bug beeping at a girl
a stature of Geezus dressed in a hawaiian shirt
a man in a “Fabreeze” shirt smoking a stogie
a deer staring at the headlights of an old lady in a buick
a young boy with one leg catching a fish with one leg
a totem pole with my face on it
Elvis on a unicycle
a lady crying by her father’s grave
planting chrysanthemums

tiny trebled tribulations of bush
by bush along the warm path
fingers tips high-hat brush hair
in preparation for percussive kisses
along the back of the neck

the long delicate apocalypse
the soprano of heat from the road
the jazz notes of every star tromboning
in as the day slides out

embers snap along to the glow
of the journey’s convection
a dedication of whisper and breath
before these memories become ash

we do not wear metal jackets
or leap from tunnels into light
in hopes of being buried in a heart

i watch how you believe
you are right – how bad
is very bad, and good
is only your good.

we do not wear metal jackets
or spiral through the spirit
into the fabric of the spirit

i watch how you believe
in heartbeats and long breaths
the miracle is not the choice
but the mechanism for it

we do not wear metal jackets
or crack like a whip
across the back of a wholly stranger

i watch how you believe
in the softness of sand
as it falls through your fingers
into the tide.