Let's play tag
You're it for me,
And when you catch me
(if ever)
I'll be it for you.
Okay?
Let's promise not to forget.
Let's promise not to play hide-and-seek.

Your tympani voice visits
Every once in a while.
And sometimes, when I hear -
What am I saying. Always.
I'm a lute
Outdated, bouncing soft off your skin
With no one to hear me
But plenty
Within me
To beat
With what's left
Of your
Vibrations.

Spring tiptoes up behind
And covers your eyes, laughing
With warm, forgivably-damp,
Beloved hands:

"Who is it?"
"Did you miss me?"

Foul and fowlish woman,
Invite me in and let me see this filth
You speak of. Your den smells
A little like cigarettes. That's good.
You understand the healing power of smoke
And grease, and dirt, and body fluids on the mind.
Savor your time alone in the house
To be gross, to be common and ill-clothed
To wipe whatever you please wherever
And to leave your begging traces
Because your children don't notice,
No matter how much you peck at them.
Your husband is too tired to make faces
Too tired to make love.
And no one else enters the solitude
The real solitude
Of your married life.
I'll stand behind you while you mix eggshells
Into your own birthday cake.
Then let's go out
With red, red mouths -
Let the slithering slime infect the walls
Break the vacuum
Defile.

You whizzed by me.
I must have felt a breeze, but it barely registered.
Such is first meetings, in all truth, dear.

The second time we met I remember
Only because I was proud of myself
For pairing the right name with your face.

Third, I can't remember,
Exactly. Sometime
Sitting around that table -
I know now you must have
Wielded chips as stage props
And used too much chocolate syrup.

Fourth, too. Fifth -
Those are gone.

How can I hold you so precious today
When I knew you so little for so long?

She doesn't recognize it at first
The image on the DVD box with a DVD about boxing inside,
Reflecting the dim daylight whitely from its dim corner.
At first glimpse, she cringes - emblazoned on the front is a wound
More scab than face,
Of course meant to titillate brutal boys
Who want to see the blood fresh.
Then she thinks of good taste - no one just buys blood -
That curve there, blocked by sunlight, must be the seam of a punching bag
A brown one,
A symbol of the adrenaline-and-sweat Cinderella story inside.
Yes. That's it.
She shifts just a little to the left, away from the window, to discover
The glass slipper she's imagined
Is a black man's ear.

Someday I will be
As brave as a metaphor.

Isn't it about time we redecorated in here? the new orphan asks,
Ripping down old wallpaper until she can't
Rip
Any 
More

It keeps on growing back,
Like the smell of smoke.

The bicycles were a forged parent-permission slip
But well-forged.
I lifted myself over the tear in the truck's seat cover, not sliding
Not perforating further for today.

The road was short, short enough to have ridden the bicycles from first start to real start.
But that would not have been exotic
Connection is exotic, and channels must be followed through an antfarm
Proper etiquette must be observed with touch-me-nots

The bicycles were easier to lift from the bed with two
I gave him that, passing a front end, and jammed the wheelspokes with a jabbed finger
So that the damp spinning would not flick his face with groundwater
I expected it to hurt. My expectation tapped lightly.

That narrow pock-marked blacktop was my windtunnel
The air stroked its thumbs over my eyelids and I ached to push, breathe, push further
He held me back with his slow handlebars,
His slow kickstand clicking.

Pedaling slowly is more difficult than flying.
One finds gladness in choosing leaves to crunch with an inch-wide tire
And high-fiving low-hanging branches is socially satisfying.
He smiles behind the white mustache, and I don't mind.