As You Recall
Recently, you reminded me
of the feelings that exploded and wedged
into the cracks of the worn-down floors.
You remember me wearing a lot of brown
my Army t-shirt exposed daily after work
in the apartment where we fed and shook our bellies.
Overwhelming helplessness replaced our absent laughter.
Face turned down, I cried
into your shoulder and out to the universe.
Our kitchen was indifferent.
The refrigerator hummed next to empty dishes
while the theft of your ability to protect me occurred.
You cared for me. I sped away.
From snowy white earth, to brown, dry dirt
suspended for a year, as you lived your life.
But I came back to hear you
tell me how it made you feel.
Let’s Go Back to 45
Climb five stairs.
Footsteps, creaks, slams.
The needle pops on the record.
A speaker dispatches bliss
through the diagonal window, and into our circle.
Seven odd chairs, and brown-painted planks
support our weight.
Bubbles slither upward to release our teeth.
Here we rest, before we rage.
Under summer and wooden canopy
we’ll feed ourselves in these half walls.
Savory scents, as the smoke there bends
like the minds of friends scribing
a library of wild memories.
Kendo swords from the store down the street.
We need a referee. He’ll speak Japanese.
Let’s go back to the porch and the yard,
Where bamboo once clacked, and called upon sweat
to glisten under the green bulb’s glow.