So That Others May Live

My son and I go down to the beach today
And lay claim to a small square of sand
Where we ***** a blue plantation of shade
Inside a red umbrella city founded by dermatologists.

Slow cooking like a pair of pork chops basted in SPF 30
He reads a Jack Reacher novel, myself the LA Times
Occasionally, he looks up from his book and shares a passage:
How about I show you the inside of an ambulance?

The girlfriend his from Kentucky has never been to the beach
She is ensconced in the best chair eating watermelon
Reading poetry by Rupi Kaur god bless her
She should have the best seat if she’s reading poetry.

People form Iowa and Minnesota you know the ones
In the parcel of sand between us and the ocean
Have lain towels and blankets far too near the tide line and
Come noon we enjoy their Midwestern diaspora to higher ground.

We body surf in waves that are bigger than they look
He wears the right fin and I wear the left
I bounce off the bottom and get my *** sand papered
Then tumble into him like a forgotten dollar bill in a wash machine.

In the parking lot laughing and spitting salt water
I pour a bucket of sand out of my wetsuit onto the hot asphalt
And realize it will never be this way again and it won’t
The lines in his face a perfect nautical map of the future.

I wish I was your neighbor
I'd wait up for you at night
throw something on the barbie
have you over for a bite. 

I'd show up with a ladder
when your cat is up a tree 
meet you at the curb, say:
would you like a cup of tea?

I'd almost daily cut you flowers
and leave them on your stoop
holler at the dog who
on your lawn's about to ****.

I wish I was your neighbor
I'd have you over for a chat
ask about your hopes and dreams
and talk of this and that.

I’d come round with a tool kit
when your kitchen faucet leaks
and oil all your hinges
when the front door squeaks.

I’d invite you to a tavern
once I’d fixed your sink
maybe I could change my clothes
and we could share a drink?

I wish I was your neighbor
I know it sounds absurd
you wouldn’t even look at me
I’d be the next door nerd.

I’d shake hands with your boyfriend
when he arrives in his Corvette.
but I’d want to slash his tires
with a rusty bayonet.


And once I’d looked him in the eye
and wished him best of luck
I’d hope that on his way back home
he’d run into a truck.

I wish I was your neighbor
I’d write love songs for you
and sing them a cappella  
after I’ve had a few.

Perhaps I’d bring you chicken soup
if I sensed you feeling low
without your ever asking
I would give the lawn a mow.

I’d bring you fresh baked Danish
full of fruit and cheese
I’d learn to say good morning
in your native Portuguese.

I wish I was your neighbor
morning night and noon
I’d leave a porch light on for you
as constant as the moon.  

Come a Sunday morning
I might follow you to church
invite you to the IHOP
for theological research.

Stepping from your morning shower
you’d hear me grinding coffee grinds
and wonder understandably
does he watch me through the blinds?

I think that it’s fine you’re allergic to wheat
Or anything else you don’t want to eat.
Be allergic to things that are cooked in the South
Allergic to things you don’t want in your mouth.
Be allergic to broccoli if you must
Allergic to toys and allergic to lust.
(No, don’t be allergic to toys and to lust.)
Be allergic to dog and allergic to cat
Allergic to this and allergic to that.
Be allergic to bee stings
Allergic to these things:
Be allergic to daisies, pansies, and roses
Allergic to Greeks with big bulbous noses.
Be allergic to Mormon brimstone and snow
By all means allergic to Pokemon Go.
Be allergic to eggs and all things dairy
Allergic to guys with backs that are hairy.
Be allergic to pollen and Oregon grass
Allergic to Trump— a Big Bag of hot gas.
Be allergic to oats and barley and rye
Allergic to naming the stars in the sky.
Be allergic to fear and that voice in your head
Allergic to anything negative said.
Be allergic to your local FOX TV station
Allergic to never going on vacation.
Be allergic to fish and things caught in the sea

Just don’t be allergic to me.

I know a woman that I don’t know anything about.
I know so little about her that I don’t know where to begin.

I don’t know the names of her cats, or her children, or her grandchildren.
I don’t know if she’s from Portugal or Pascagoula.

I don’t know that she tried to grow an orange tree inside her head.
Or that her Guardian Angel wears a Captain’s suit— and lives in New Brunswick.

If she stood beside me I’d be clumsy and wouldn’t know where to put my arm.
And I have no idea what she feels like pressed against my chest.

I don’t t know her fears: flying in airplanes, spiders and **** roaches, and Me.
Especially Me.

I don’t know what she tastes like.
And I can only wonder about her tongue in my mouth.

I don’t know that her hair is perfect.
Or whether she’d like a picnic in the desert.

In fact, I’ve never seen her hair, and we’ve never been to the desert together.
I must be thinking of someone else.

I do not know that she has a husky voice and tells me stories.
Or whether her laugh sounds like wind in a pine cone.

How would I know if she snores under a half moon on the highway?
Or whether she fancies fruit pastry?

I don’t know if she is as cruel as a nun with a yardstick.
Or if she’d go with me to a place she’s never been.

I certainly don’t know how she makes me feel. How would I?
And, I don’t have a clue— nary an inkling— about falling in love with her.

Because I don’t know anything about her.

Tanzanite
Just when you think it will rain forever.
That you’ll never see the sun again.
A small accident of wonderful happens.
Hot glazed doughnuts fall out of the sky.

She wore blue boots.
A diamond stud in her perfect nose.
And a ring the color of a cautionary tale.
Naturally— she was blonde.

An uncomplicated spark leapt between us.
Like something out of an IKEA box.
Only a fool believes in love at first sight.
A wise man needs an hour in an airport bar.

I slipped a dime into the dark slot of her cleavage.
And tugged gently on her red lacquered finger.
She guessed my weight and read my fortune.
Looked into me like an x-ray machine.

The problem with airplanes is they fly away.
She kissed me on both cheeks like a French girl.
Then disappeared into jet fumes and freezing rain.
A vapor trail of possibility or pipe dream.

The next day I climbed a windmill.
Like a Portuguese sailor in the rigging.
I scribbled a message onto a cocktail napkin.
And stuffed it into a bottle.

Then I pitched it into the desert sea.
It arced like a golden comet.
And splashed into the sand and sage.
Throwing sparks of Tanzanite.

The color of her boots.

There is a penciled poem folded and hiding
Somewhere in the bottom of
Filomena’s new designer handbag.
At least, the ghost of one.

Only, how does she find
Something that isn’t quite yet?
Or anything at all
In that cluttered
Sack of apprehension and mystery?

Beneath a tangle of dead Presidents
and a handful of tissues
For wiping Sailor’s nose,
Between eyeliner, lipgloss, and cell phone
Nestles a small jar of glittery hope.

And a tin full of powdery promise
Tucked in beside breath mints,
fear and danger,
Faith and chewing gum.
Wisdom with an applicator
sealed in a waterproof pouch.

There is a penciled poem hiding
Somewhere in the bottom of
Filomena’s new handbag.
And a passport and a ticket to...

Tomorrow

If words fell from trees
Like leaves In October
I would rake them into poems
In my backyard. 

And encourage children
To run through them 
Kicking and giggling. 
And generally rewriting them.

Then I'd rake them up
Again put them into
Plastic poem sacks 
And bring them to you.

When Phyllis tells you she'll
Always have a special place
In her heart for you, she means
Way back in a dark and forgotten
cobwebbed corner of the basement
Behind a dusty box of Mason jars,  
And a broken rocking horse that
Will never trot again.