All A Yall Go

Ready to tear off an afternoon run
in the air dotted with the gray mists of
the ghosts jostled loose from tree tops
stoned ragged by morning hail
I catch up to my steps marking the time
at my front door
like a dog waiting to be taken to the park
and chewing at the edge of my dreams
while I slept.

The clouds overhead are obscure
as I go by four counts over downed branches
and sad faced leaf pieces that want to know
why the day got off so miserably but I
don't have time to talk or read
the fuzzed intent  of shapes out bent
above me and where my dogged feet
are want to go and can I shake
the nights disappointment loose?
The clouds hide behind each other
and heckle out "no"s.

Turning pot hole crater rims and
winter broken sidewalk crimps and
bowls of collected water and road slog
I straighten up and breath it all
inside and take the ghosts
along for the ride until they spin
off my back and to their nests
to chirp and peep and work the branches
in the warming breeze
and the air in me is like
a jar of fireflies
turned loose against a flat black night.

Above me, the clouds are still
a motley crowd, but the trees are coming
together over me and my two four step
and even the puddles are clapping
to the beat between sheets of steam
from the air drying street and the
green of tree tops worked this way and
then that by winds fast forwarded
on summer bird's backs
scrub away the wet blanket of "no"
before the lines break back
in floodlit waves of purple dotted shrubs
red hydrant corners and moss flecked limbs
gripping green and sun fire worked poms
to reveal more sky and pearly blue
than I could swallow if I had a mouth a mile wide
and behind me
off to either side
all the trees go "yeah!"

Hey, Girl

The high today is looking like
I might wear something light
in kind with you and I could ride
to where the streets get wide
and traffic's slow and easy
to peddle laughs and smiles
between icees and frost coffee
and maybe stop by
my favorite spot to lie
beside the freight tracks,
sun in our eyes, and fly
on tangents dyed
green as dandelion bulbs
not yet broken open.

The sunshine is calling, neon signed,
drawing wide and deep blue lines
behind and through my blinds.
The tufted clouds remind
me of the fine edged bite
in plastic cupped white wine
out of doors in your backyard
or mine on a Wednesday
calling for an end
to workday grinds and
buzz blushed conversation,
so how about you
and I go forget why
days have gone by between then
and today's lustered
creamed ice custard sunshine
begging the question
of us two, undefined.