We are of science,
You and I

Paint and brush
Pen and paper
Lute and sweet tenor,

We favored these
In the tender,
candy-flavored blush of springtime
When we were artists
And marvelous color trailed in our wake and pooled in our footsteps,

Ecstatic synesthesia
decorating the early hours of our
long day’s journey into night.

But we.

We are of science,
You and I

Excavators and archeologists in sacred pursuit,
Brushing the earth from a shard swept into the depths,
Ah, see, here is treasure
Here is proof.

Turn yourself inside out for me
That I may count your rings
Remove your backing
That I may marvel at your machinery

If this love is a song
It is also a tree
- roots and seeds
It is also a pocket watch
- sturdy and intentional
It is also a gravesite
- stardust and mosaics of broken bones,
patient,
silent,
Awaiting the hands of an artist to
knit them back together.

But we.

We are of science,
You and I.

Paint and brush
Pen and paper
Lute and sweet tenor,
We favored these
When we were artists.

Ah, see.

Here is treasure.
Here is proof.

The engine idles softly from the comfort of this dusky parking lot as I
Wait
Half-heartedly dreading your arrival.

It’s not your fault.
I was raised in parking lots,
Fed up on exhaust, leather interior, errant crumbs.
This pausing of time is
A rare delicacy, and I savor it:
The pleasant lightness of the air combined with the gentle purr of the motor,
The dashboard lights festive and flashing

Red
Yellow
Green

The traffic busies by me,
it’s really picking up now.
Each car a microcosm,
Each a cocoon
A universe
An ecosystem,
And me, a fly on the wall for this single moment of this single journey,
Undetected and undetectable in my own private Idaho.

I do some make up to pass the time.
My skin looks perfect in the glowing mirror light.
I take a breath.
It’s the first one in days.

I’m trying to write a poem.

A great poem, universal in message, beautiful in word and thought.

So I zoom into my life:

The steam rising from the tea on the side table;
The patient hound at my feet.

I recount the day, the week,
It’s the ******* holidays and the future is bleak.

No, no.
That won’t do.
I won’t do that to you.

I zoom out, then,
Out and out to the glistening streets
Broadening my view to include the tent city in the park,
The nighttime quiet,
The settling dark.

A universal truth,
Now this is the tricky part.
How to distill my thoughts into a beating heart?

It’s windy and wet. Not too cold, yet.
I worry about the **** heads living in tents,
Some of them won’t make it to spring,
We all know that.

One wrong turn and it could have been me.
You.
Any of us.

Not a beautiful thought but a plain one,
And a prayer
That they find some food and enough firewood and clothing to survive out there.
Some of them may be writing the next great poem,
Who can tell?
I wish them well.

Alas.
Tonight is not my night for revelations.
My head swims with tomorrow’s obligations and the call of slumber, so sweet, breaks my concentration.

Another night then.
To find the truth
And learn to shape it,
Nail and tooth.