The Other Side of the Sunrise

Let’s make this life brilliant
Let’s make it beautiful and bright
Let’s begin now

I want to walk there by the water
With you, again
As we did once
After our failed expedition with chalk

I want to play tic-tac-toe
On my arm, again
After we’d had our espresso
So dark and warm and rich

I want to sit on that park bench after sunrise
In a bad mood, dead tired
Because I would still be with you
Even if we didn’t speak

I keep looking at my life
As a poem I haven’t written yet
And I want you to help me write it

So I’ll meet you there
Once again, by the river
On the other side of the sunrise

Things I Like

I like when you tell me stories
About your bad memory
How you forgot the name of the bank
Where your blind mother
Needed you to take her,
How you found the right place
And how you realized, later,
You had left your phone there

Or that time (last week)
When you sent me a letter in the mail
And in your hurry and excitement
Forgot to affix a stamp

But I like how you remember
To hold me on the ice,
Because you remember
That I always slip
I like how you remember
To call me those names
That weren’t my own
Until you spoke them to me

I like when you tell me stories
About your bad memory
Because it consoles me in advance
For that inevitable day
When I, too, will forget–
To come to one of your shows,
Or buy your birthday present
Or something far worse
Than those little things
That I
(Sometimes)
Remember
And you
(Sometimes)
Forget

Vestigial

He was at the grocery store yesterday,
Buying milk, detergent, and coffee beans.
The checkout girl had short hair,
And a smile that was nice,
But unnecessary,
Like the entryway
To his grandmother’s house-
Almost vestigial,
Of older days,
When men wore ties and hats
And a woman never left the house
Without a pair of gloves,
A handkerchief,
And a glance in the mirror.

He didn’t know what made him
Think of his grandmother—
Maybe it was the hair,
Or maybe it was the fact he was
Buying a half gallon of milk,
Like she always had.
Maybe it was the laundry detergent—
He usually remembered his grandmother
When he thought of detergent.
He could see her by the washing machine—
She would always pull the clothes out very carefully,
Look them over one by one,
In case she forgot something,
Overlooked one black sock.
He never did that himself—
He always dumped the clothes in all at once,
Hoping they were all the same general shade,
No quarters or crayons lost in the pockets.
Then he dumped some detergent in,
Haphazard,
Not the kind that his grandmother used,
That smelled like violets.

Time Travel

He looked like a noir hero,
With his melancholy mouth
Dylan Thomas hair
And fatalistic outlook
On his future life

She looked like a flower child
Wide eyed and expectant
But inexplicably nostalgic
For a bittersweet past
She never knew

They looked so odd together,
For he should have been
In some smoke filled office
With lettering on the glass
And she should have been
In a wide meadow
With a dandelion chain
Around her neck

I wondered,
As the light from the window
Further chiseled his features
And drew out the softness
In her hands and throat,
How he had managed to reach across
Three centuries of war and peace
To take her hand so gently
And offer his shoulder for her head

My Life as a Radio

Today: High winds and
Scattered storms,
Bad reception
Tomorrow’s forecast:
The weather clears
(And if it doesn’t
I ignore the rain)

First Poem (For You)

I lie in bed at night,
Not sleeping,
But thinking of poems
That I will forget
Before the morning

If I could have one wish,
It might be to remember
The loveliest lines
Which inevitably
Slip away

I do remember these:
Sparks that fly upwards
Always die
And
I miss you

It’s not the end of the beginning, dear,
Or the beginning of the end,
But something far, far better

I have a list of things I want to do in my lifetime,
Like writing love notes to the world,
Supporting local business,
Seeing more sunrises

I also have a list of things I want to not do
It’s shorter, but just as important
It includes things like:
Forgetting,
Wasting,
Hiding

I do these things far more often
Than I would like to admit

Still, despite these defects,
I’d rather be me,
Than any alternatives
Wouldn’t you rather be you?

I’m rather fond of you and I

If I could have one wish,
It would probably not be
To remember something
But to have something
Worth remembering

Post-it Note Beside My Desk

Stop.
Think.
You’re probably wasting time.

Apology

I want to write
I want to write so much
So badly
So painfully

I sit here
With a pen
Somedays a pencil
If I’m feeling
Particularly unsure

I choke on my words
Like a small child
Choking down cough syrup
My words should be flowing out,
But I always seem to swallow them
Sickening myself
Eyes tearing up
Like its someone else’s fault
I can’t see
Can’t hear
Can’t remember
Can’t write down
Those strange, beautiful things
That make life
Life

To Live Would Be an Awfully Great Adventure

I wish I could make friends
As easily as I did when I was five,
And life seemed so much shorter,
When I was fearless
And so were you.

Life’s different, now.
We don’t grab, we wait.

But a few years ago
We would have instantly become
Inseparable (YouandI).

Now, I make up games
And break the rules.

People grow out of themselves
And into something else,
Or try to (You, and I).

Part of life ends
Without our consent
And even our knowledge
(Until afterward),
And another part begins
Before we’ve had time
To say goodbye
To the old days,
To our old ways.

I’m not sure what to think of all this.
I imagine what I could say to you,
I imagine how I’d say it,
And exactly what I’d mean,
And what you’d say back,
When I was finished with my
Ever so poetic soliloquy.

I imagine you standing there,
Like Jordan Baker,
Holding a drink and saying calmly
With a distant expression
“Life starts all over again,
When it gets crisp in the fall.”

Perhaps I was never fearless.
Perhaps I never will be.
But I’ll give myself
A second chance,
If you will.

Semi-Quartet

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
She asked, looking down at
Me, as I reclined on the sand,
Eyes hidden by dark glasses.

“Not at all,” I replied,
Turning a page.

“Kate’s a loner at heart,”
Kristy said, kicking sand at me
As she took off her sweater.

I am a loner, I know,
But someone had to stay with
The motley mound of purses.
I didn’t mind because
I was enjoying reading
Poems about lanyards,
So much that I didn’t know
If you had gone right or left
With your long lounging strides
(Except for Elsbeth,
Who is rather shorter).

I read quite a few poems,
Reread them too—
Billy Collins and two of my own,
Then took a break to watch
A small girl chasing a seagull
And smile at my pen.

Later you told me
You had written a line on the shore
(T. S. Eliot, mermaids)
And that made me very happy.

I looked up then,
And saw you run by,
You had gone to the left,
And crossed to the right,
Led by Kelly,
Not looking to me,
But holding the camera aloft
And squinting into the hot gray sky.

I watched you, loping
Gently
Across the sand, talking
Intently
And brushing your hair
Out of your eyes
Not loners,

My friends.