Ice is turning to water
beneath my ass,
watching the basketball worn smooth
bury itself in the undertow of the dam wash for minutes
and rush free, leaping airborne in seconds.
Missing the flight when I blink.
Sitting more still to be sure
eyes are not playing tricks.
The sandwich packed is the same,
the lettuce from the same head,
the mayo from the same jar,
the turkey a bit sour since we last spoke.
Chunks of ice are playing too
in the jet wash of energy and
chemicals, long buried, pressed free by the freeze
and sun baked liquid again,
are foaming bubble bath.
Spit consistency. Before the ball takes leave again.
Inchoate. A problem with expression.
Embrace it. Too tightly. Who knows when "when" is.
Peel pickles from bread sogged by a dash too much vinegar
and pitch them across the floe
until they sink into the water Winter thick
where the Spring ducks strut and the
drift wood fire should stand
on the pile of skipping stones too big to throw.
Peel pickles and glance to the sun,
skin heated despite the cold,
sweatshirt balled atop the backpack
to keep dry and give in to the rays for a while.
I am not hungry. Me neither, the basketball says.
I am not drowning. I am waving, the basketball says,
playing in the foaming down wash. Come play with me, Arthur.
Come play with me, Arthur.
Come play with me, Arthur.
That is not my name. Embrace. Too tightly.
Like a stripper. Do not touch the dancers. Rule two.
Cash only. Rule one. Do not be silly. The weather is wonderful.
Have you tried this turkey yet? It is still good. All the way.
The funny thing is, going home will be tremendous
after being here
in -1 degree air, speaking to friends
who never say anything
easily translated.
