Archimedes asked for a lever
to move the world, but who asked
him to move it? Where would I find
a lever that long, let alone a place
to stand? Probably something
to do with Lagrange points and
orbital mechanics. I took
calculus in high school.
Where would I move
it? Slightly to the left so
it catches more sun in the mornings?
Andromeda, with the other upwardly
mobile planets? Can’t I just
stand where I am with my coffee
and adequate lever and move
this mug, this spoon?
Only what will serve
her well. What otherwise
she may never see.
Cheese puffs implode
in your mouth. Clean-sheet
day is luxurious.
First principles, simple
machines, Newton’s
First Law.
Planets don’t twinkle. Some
fronds curl when stroked.
I love you.
Every morning we feed the birds.
Like when your spine aligns with a guest-bed groove,
or you reach the dip you’d thought long lost, forever,
between the dunes of your shoulder blades, or you
dream of grandma and the walks to DQ cherry sundaes and
playing with fridge magnets on the floor and her
cigar box of fragmented Canary, Blue-Green, Green-Blue,
and Mango Tango, and farewelling, engulfing hugs against
her house-coated breasts before you fall into the cold
of the world.
Isn’t that a dream you’d share
with everyone?
The footsteps behind
me weren’t, but were
a leaf skritching in my
wake. Crunchy and curious,
seeking distant piles
to explore, rakes to elude,
summers to mourn,
assuming I was more
adventurous than I am.
How big is this table? How many, and when? Will
I know anyone? I can do grilled chicken. Asparagus.
Something with curry. Nothing fancy, though I can
follow a recipe. Napkins, dishes, knives, forks.
Anxiety and depression, which, like salt and pepper,
should always be passed together. I can fix
a faucet and build a campfire, name the actor in that
one movie, sound like Donald Duck. When he’s angry.
I can rock any baby to sleep, take twenty-minute
naps. Do you need extra chairs?
I can sit on the floor.