Always see one worn  .  .  .
Lone shoe in streets and alleys,
  .  .  .  Never see a pair.

Teachers grow.
I love the way an
Adult now

Bends knees before
A speaking child
To

Look up
And
Listen.

I've been a construction worker
My entire adult
Life.

Still, I cannot
Seem to rebuild
Her confidence.

I've been a poet for
As long as I can
Remember,

But my encouraging
Hollow-point-words shatter
Against her insecure kevlar.

Suppose all I can be is
Sunlight, water and
Soil.

I'll try that; I've been a
Farmer's boy since
Birth.

Evening raindrops gathering
Along the bottom of my
Bedroom window

Make me
Turn down the music
And listen with a heart

Filling up like the eyes of
An old woman; once mother,
Now not,

Beholding an infant so
Young, it'll remain one for
A very long

Time. Some tones
Form chords that hurt
Like caramel burns.

Sweet loves lost in bitter
Ways were still that
Sweet.

Still that
Sweet; now
Forever.

I lost not;
Gained
Lovely ghosts.

She loves to drive, but fears the
Station where the machine that
Loves her needs to
Fuel up in
Peace before the
Journey
Continues.

As if the ignition is off
Forever.

I do believe my days withing these
Concrete ashram walls are
Coming to an end.

It might be a slow ending, but
It'll be a good one.
It began the day I saw the

Beautiful truth behind the ugly
Mask of everyday insignificance.
Beauty and meaning;

Soft hand in a mild one.
Water strength.
Cement frailty.

Thoughts are like air; find their
Way from A to another
A.

Looking at my friend fitting
A door, cursing at the promise of
Adjustments,

Or enjoying the way the Project Manager
Leaves us never knowing whether
He's joking or not with a face

As cold as his project's foundations.
I fall in love with Life every day.
Even when I hate it.

I've learned that I never stop learning.
I'll be a slightly different man tomorrow,
Yet still myself.

Always still myself.
There is wisdom in flexibility; the
Holding on to nothing,

Even ones definition of oneself.
I was a construction worker.
Now, I'm a

Construction worker.
I take comfort in the fact
That the only comfort I'll

Ever really need, is the
One I give
Myself.

That a lover,
(Poets, prepare,)

Might reply to your
Heart's semantic blood,

As
Such:

Stop using the word
"Love" in your poems.

Just say what you
Mean.

Just say what you really
*..."mean.

What you mean.
When you

Write
"Love.""