Someone was screeching,
“get the hell off the porch
and into the basement!”
It was my conscience.
She is a lazy bitch.
I wanted to stand there for hours,
swaying in the wind
as the spring storm surrounded
and held me within its warm grip,
the smell intoxicating –
of earth and rain,
like the place I nuzzle
at his neck, after,
when we have had our storm.

With a hush that fell
when all was asleep,
sensory mechanics
of bread, rain, and
a white knitted poncho from childhood
came rushing back to me
–
the fog this morning
was most glorious…
spaces between ages
showed necessary lines;
I will never be as beautiful
but possibly as misunderstood
since carried on vapors
are lessons of silence,
as simple as love or adrenaline
and burned just as quickly.

There was a day
in spring
in my youth
when I learned
the vagaries
of passion and poetry;
the day his Irish lilt
wrapped around
‘80’s lyrics and Italian food
and I felt
a slow strangling
instead of joy.

There’s a reason
truth is always around the next bend

our eyes were made curvy
but see straight ahead best

we’re addicted to the turns
that guide our stride

it’s like unrolling a globe
on a table and sailing the four corners

it’s nice keeping up
with hipster mythology.

I came home and mixed some mayo with tuna.
It was good.
I walked the 70 feet to the mailbox mindfully.
It was a gift.
I swallowed errant love words else I lose myself.
I do not need twelve ingredients for a sandwich.
I do not need a paved road.
I still need simple touch.

I sat quietly, writing this for a few moments.
There was no boomerang.
I was safe.