He put down the wrench

and fancied a dance

but only a virtual one,

so it was a mental jig

to a snappy Dean Martin tune

(“Powder your face with sunshine…”).

He made notes

of what he saw:

lizards, flowers, chrome.

He always had a song

running in the background

(“Whistle a tune of gladness…”).

He kept the most holy notes

in his pocket:

her back, petals, home.

Only a little push now and then

to keep the spin alive.

A thrill of contentment

with the fan pushing the cool green air

all around the dusky room,

a book resting on a lap, a shift in a chair…

it seems years since bones were supple,

the psyche didn’t ache,

and that was the last time

a particular thrill held sway.

The ship went down

in my dream

and I hummed,

remembering lush green fields

but I also knew

in that dream-aware state

that while wandering

in meadows full of bees and flowers,

I had dreamed of the sea

…

drowning in both places,

wind and water…

waves lapping at my hips, feet, face

taking my body

because it is only mine to borrow

for a little while.

I’ve seen my own portrait

in filthy dollar store windows

and in the confusingly cumbersome/graceful

mien of the manatee,

but I secretly long to stretch

along the columns to some great place

and fill in the spaces where people

pass by, expecting beautiful things,

things to make you think and feel excited,

instead of feeling like

an eternal disappointment

or worse, a bothersome smog.