I Sincerely Want to Hear from You
And I remember your painting of cows with blue
shadows well - the copy of Dirk Wears White Socks
you hid and played while your mom was at work.
So much of life is sugary nonsense, but you
always leaned into it with style and gravitas.
There was no guessing - no cheap red or blue
crap sprayed into your hair. I think of you often
as I parallel park, as I lace up my boots
or eat a perfectly grilled cheese sandwich.
The cantaloup is painfully ripe and lightly salted.
One bite will drive me insane, as would hearing
from you now. The sky is grey. Neither a coat
or jacket feels quite right for walking around,
and there's nothing much left to walk to,
no record stores, no hollow trees to check
for treasure or bugs, but, ah, to walk to what's no
longer there with you . . . The same blue shadows
fall from abandoned cars. They fall on sidewalks
and obscure my feet.
Favorite Constellations
The tide is low, and footprints fail to accumulate for now. Nothing overlaps, the sky spread out like a fitted sheet stretched to some sort of unlikely win by newlyweds. They are cute, and they feel as if they will smooth any domestic challenge that comes between them – for now.
This is a destination, hence, not the only starting place. Some come from Michigan, where I hear militia groups police car shows. Some come from Uttar Pradesh, where I hear popcorn venders know a thing or two about transcendental meditation.
Most of the vacationers have returned. It is well past Labor Day, so only convalescing astronauts and poets remain. Each looks to the sky, though no one particularly cares what happens after dark this time of year. They attempt to identify their favorite constellations as purple clouds unfold and the winds tests their commitment.
Comments