As I understand
it, my purpose
is to capture,
in passing, this
construction worker giving
another a long-stemmed
wildflower, freshly plucked,
presented, accepted,
rushingly shoved
into a shirt pocket between
shifts, all draped
in safety-first yellow.
It all happened so quickly.
This bus, this love, this
rumpled weed.
I want to sleep
near a fire of
drift
wood, dredged
from a withered sea.
Towers fallen, sapped,
life picked clean
of hope,
heritage scattered
along barren earth,
broken and waiting.
In the potential of Dawn’s
desolation comes the Stranger
who names my name and
sings my loss and whispers
the Truth that didn’t burn.
My father took
the Barry Manilow
records; my mother
took me.
I was his first son,
yet he, I believe,
never once
made me cry.
sunrise is my favorite when
Creation stir-steps
atop wavetips to sink
its toes in sand before we
bound from slumber
take eagerful brokeful leaps
into the world
we cannot know
I don’t trust men
who don’t wear socks. Could
it be the hint of villainy
or my envy at not being
able to pull it off? Or
because the shamefill, shattered
part of me that so profusely
sweats through missteps and debts,
bedclothes and socks, wonders
where, exactly, they hide
their guilt?