For Sia

wake up unscrubbed,
sleep still in the eyes,
dream crusted,
probably unaware, child,
that you are a poem
sleeping

when a little girl,
reverting, designing
real from dreams,
processing, reforming,
the dreams lusting
to be poems
to go awandering

no wonder you have
more first names
than the rest of the world
combined

who you gonna be
this day?
undecided?
a new name adopted?
why not...

did you think I didn't notice?

the degree of yours ungranted,
I favor most is the one
you
never take
unless given
but always only
offer all:
friend

escapade thy 'they' thru
their assorted flavors,
nose rings, tongue piercings,
take 'em all, on the train ride to

see Sia run
see Sia play
see Sia read

see Sia lead
her troupe known only to me as the
Sherwood Forest Baker Street Irregulars
on adventures all over the U.K.

someday you will get a degree
from Peter Pan in
all grown-up-ness,
settling down,
but I surely hope not,
for I will then be sadder,
way sadder than I am
even now,
a different generation man,
when
forgone, missing,
the little dream crusted girl

for Joe A., who wishes me that
"may your best days be in love's sight"

your kindness in words,
over the top,
unduly undue

"my best days"
très charmant,
mais aujourd'hui

students surpass
the teachers,
cause
sad, bad and life
tag trending
and we~me,
are simply
Sunday~done
with those

nowadays,
grandpa's tools
outdated, shelved,
in their final
resting place,
blades dulled,
the technology
of his verbiage,
rusted by old age

the reads diminishing,
his touch, antiquated,
his best days, resting on top of
the ocean internet waves
his summertime buddies,
sand sun grass and sea air perfumes,
singing, awe we got ya,
cosy and comforted,
awaiting you in your chair,
overlooking our truest
sheltered applause

my best words
turned inwards,
collecting recollections,
rereading my solaces,
and content that

my body,
still stirs,
when joined by
Barry White and Lionel,
forgot like me,
yet happy, in bed
with us

so you see,
Joe,
you are half right,
the right half

on my bare chest,
blonde tresses,
blanket, keeping me warm,
easy like a Sunday morning

so turns come and go,
no more down the slide,
running to the back of the line,
up and down again and again

time of the tool and die maker,
to cut loose,
learn by crafting daily,
and not from the books

Ooh, that's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning
That's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning^

write for me, write for her,
for with her,
in love's sight,
life is
easy like Sunday morning,
and
that's why I'm easy,
like Sunday morning

you told me
lies
in my body
getting to high
forgetting how the rays of sun
feel
this smoke is making me look old
and now the clouds
cry forever
you told me

we laugh
crying like those clouds
forever
shiver down my skin
you kiss the clouds
forever
you told me
lies
in my body
hiding in the dark
getting to high
forever

I wish that with these words I could craft
a warm nest to nuzzle in
or a pair of cupped hands
or an alcove of bubble wrap

I wish that with these words I could
protect you from the harsh ones
or not let you see the stares
or shield your worrying mind from its own thoughts

But I can't.

no matter what words I write
they cannot create a shelter

no matter how hard I hug you
you are still exposed to the world

no matter how many "Its okay"'s I whisper
you still shake your head in disbelief

I'm sorry my words aren't enough
I cant craft them into an alcove of safety
or hide you from the judgmental world
or comfort you until you're truly okay.

But what I can offer is this:
a shoulder to cry on
lips to give advice from
arms to receive a hug from

and a friend whose heart and soul loves you.