you know. That's what all of
the day to day is,"
you pulled up the zipper
on your white sweatshirt,
the one with the red block letters
outlined in gray
from your parent's alma mater.
The red fades
close to the depth of
your eyelids where the spring
afternoon light falls
autumn sleepless, but your
smile is still sharp,
in glimmers,
as upended shopping carts,
at empty bus stops.
A piece of the curb,
yellow chipped and pitted,
skips like pocket change
along cobble ribbed
river waves
dotted with ten ounce dixie cups
filled with milk sun.
"Come on, man,"
I don't reject
what's left of
your cigarette,
your fingertips grazing my chin
in the exchange.
Our hoods are too loose
as we head into the breeze,
motors silent, but tacking
in steps that fill the width of sidewalk
like a cross eyed bartender,
sails full.
"When you've made it,"
ignoring the burn of wind jostled spark
in the corner of my eye,
"it all blends together?"
I pull the strings of my black sweatshirt
and smile back,
the homeless man and his
garbage bags of late nights
disappearing from above
my rows of teeth still hurting
from the side bursting laughter of
running out of ways to
describe myself to human resources
"I've been thinking of becoming
a full time Eskimo. They're always
hiring in Alaska."
"I've been thinking of becoming
a full time Eskimo. They're always
hiring in Alaska."
Our shoulders
play a soft note against each other,
our feet taking us
into the same square of cement,
"Something like that,"
you touch the chap of your lips
with a fingernail days out of polish
the way I would have
in a different life.
"Every year, this time of year,
I look forward to more leaves
on the ground than dancing above
in the trees I've never been tall enough
to reach on my own."
Your sneaker catches
against the cement and
we laugh a little more
in the cool of another year's afternoon.
