His Down's Syndrome makes
His age a tough guess, I'll
Say eight to ten.

Wide eyes on machines,
Ice cream dripping on the
Pavement outside the

Construction site.
I wanna work like this when
I grow up, he says in

Young enthusiasm to a mother
Whose eyes well up with
Gratitude when I approach

And kneel down in front of
Him. So you want a job,
Buddy? I ask him with a

Wink. He suddenly remembers
His ice cream and bites into
It shyly. Nods, glancing at the

Tools in my belt, the scratches
On my arms, the brick wall
I've been attacking with a

Wacker jackhammer. Nods
Again. Well, I'll see you in a
Few years, I say with another

Wink, this time to his mother,
Who'd look her young age if
Her eyes weren't as tired,

But you can start with this
And get some practice. I hand
Him my Stanley Fat Max

Hammer. His ice cream
Hits the ground as he
Recieves it with both hands,

Looking to his mother for
Confirmation that it's ok.
Oh, it is. She mouths a

Thank you SO much...
They walk away, his chatter
High pitched and fading

Around the corner. And I
Head over to the foreman to
Report that I lost my hammer.

Don't ever employ me.
I can work a good game, but
I'm too soft around little heroes.

What a cheerful world
Mine has become
Since I started forcing myself

To smile when my alarm
Goes off

Every
Single
Morning

It takes less
And less
Force

Though the Summer sun
No longer muffles its rays
With trees, but is full with
Daytime,
I will let you sleep.

Though the cat is playing
With your feet under the
Cover to annoy them into the
Kitchen,
I will let you sleep,  

And feed her myself.
I'll keep the news on low;
Only be whispered to of the
Deaths and tragedies we've
Slept through.

And if my every dream as of
Lately has been true; that
You miss the freedom of an empty
Bed when I'm there;
The room for another it creates,

I will let you sleep.
I will close every door of the house
Between us, hide my pain
In my hands and feel it run
Like the last of our sand between
My fingers.

I will not wake you up with
A single sigh, snuffle or drop of
Tear on this floor that
We walked in our days of love.
I will suffer for us alone.
And let you sleep.

Of us wants to
Lose
Either
Of us.

I am writing this as
I stand -beer in hand- watching
Neil Gaiman being

Interviewed on stage in
Oslo. He has more to say
Than many, to poets

And those living lives; others.
"Writing is like composting.  
You have an idea. You

Leave it to rot... and
Things will grow
From it."

I have given you
So much.

Still I find with
Every thing I give you,
You give two back

So I have four to give; and
Recieve your eight.
Feeding wealth to feed itself
To feed itself itself.
You taught me
Circle.

You have given me
So much.

Our love, little girl
Our love is not a castle  
No palace of gold, no fortress
Or stronghold
No cathedral or church

It is a tiny tree house
Where we sit
Dangling lazy legs
Holding hands

Rope ladder pulled up
No grown-ups allowed
And no single idea
About any love
Outside
Ours.

I was such a beautiful child,
With my shoulder lengths of
Sun bleached barley.

Smiled little pearl soldiers in
Line. Old glassesless ladies
Took me for
Girlchild.

But I grew twisted like an
Appletree around a
Graveyard path
Lightpost.

Teeth came out crooked.
Hair fell out at thirteen.
I was big for my age;
Grew other hair in places
I never knew I would.

My voice broke as if in
Sorrow over the child
Inside that had
Died. After that I spoke as if
Into a bucket.

Sometimes I catch my father
Gazing at me through a slight veil
Of grievance for that same
Child.

I would never dream
To blame him.

His pants were nearly down on his
Knees. His ballcap was more than
Askew. She  
Was way beyond eighty, as swift
As a snail.
The traffic more "train" than a
Queue.

His friends were all laughing, and
Yes, so was he. Suppose it was meant
As a joke.
But so gently he took her by arm and
Across; our gratitude's all he
Provoked.

She thanked him with eyes that were
Wet with relief. And left us bystanders
In plain disbelief.
He bowed like a gentleman, bid her
Adieu...
Doing as real people do.
-
I knew I had hurt her by ways of a
Child; thoughtless and  
Unconsciously.
I asked her the next day to sit for a
While. And accept my apology.

She said with her hand on my cheek
Like a mom: "No need for it boy, I
Know you.
It happens to everyone under the
Sun... You acted like
All people do."
-
I've nothing but gratitude every day
For people acting in every way
Thinkable, all we're expected to
Is to do just as all people do.

Sometimes we are kind, but more
Often than not
We're selfish and cruel and
Demanding a lot.
But it's worth it, I think, for those
Angel-like few
Who do things as real people do.

Poor girl.
In love with Poet.

Poet and man; angry at times;
Firing insults you can't

Possibly
Counter.

Beating you black and blue
With flowers
And feathers.

Poor girl.
Loved by Poet.

Loved and held closest;
First to fall victim

To every sudden movement
In matters of hearts
And hands.

Speaking with our hands
We discharge disagreements at
The windows of our castle.

Taking out the eyes of our love
One retina at the time.
Blinding our union until

We forgive each other with
Passionate agreement.
Speaking with our hands.

This proverbial palace of pen
And paper has room for
Exactly as many as
We are.
Together.
People of Parchment, welcome.
Move in.

Poem has room for your every letter,
Each one of your feelings, all
Pleasure; all hurt.
It's diary, -hallways that go on
Forever-
That you can explore in your mind,
It is birth

Of things that you love, that you see
Your own features in.
Thoughts fit for sharing with minds
Like your own.
It's channel for channeling, channel
For handling the things that arise,
You are never alone.

It's words to the pictures of love
That you witnessed, it's tellings of
Hardships you had
To withstand.
It's more discriptive of lust and of
Pleasure than movies you watch in
The dark with
Your hand.

The Palace of Poem has room for
Each poet. The doors are unlocked,
See the sign: "Vacancy."
Interiour's custom, your personal
Taste as design, and don't ask:  
It is perfectly free.

In here there's no grown-ups,
We're children; just taller.
No bedtime, no said time to eat or
Come home.
In here you can choose to create
When you're crying, or laughing or
Tickled or cut to the bone.
-
It's a palace fit for the Kings and
Queens of Expression
That truly live in your
Every
Mirror.