Come and gone through screen doors,
ain't seen you since... where's my calendar.
Kicking the butts of your cigarettes off of my porch,
sun and the moon up at once.
The hound across the street is baying
the way she always does.
Leafing through the mail
where is my nail clipper?
Momma used to clean them out with a little hook thingy.
I chewed them some last night.
Stay on the ball. Dad used to do hand gestures,
rub his fingers, pointer to thumb, and point
at my eyes
and it meant "Pay, see pay? Okay? So, pay. Got it? Alright,
pay attention!"
At least that's what he would say.
I cannot remember the last time I clipped them,
but I do know how iffy that gunk is and the hit or miss taste
and so I chew them some more
sight on contrast
nail to white envelope crease, thumbing through.
Nothing good comes by post
these days. Coffee steam is more beautiful come winter
out of doors. A short trip, but a trip nonetheless
to see sunlit clouds and contrails.
Why didn't you call me?
Kicking your cigarette butts off my porch
the letters from bill collectors go back in the box
and I stretch,
rub my eyes,
and wake up for you,
wherever you are.
