It's the warmest day of the winter
here in Denver,
and I enjoy wearing a blue
short sleeved button up
with strange patterns
that I found at the thrift store
that belonged to some man
before it belonged to me.

I wonder how different we are.
I wonder how similar we are.

I wonder if he'd ever crawled
inside one of the great pyramids,
only to find a small room
that people slaved and died over,
once occupied by a king
who is no longer there
and was replaced by
cool, wet air
that smells like
some tourist
who forgot to wear
deodorant that day.

Maybe he'd have quit
smoking cigarettes by now.
Maybe he'd have never started
in the first place.

Maybe he would run out of breath
when introduced to olive eyes
complimented by olive overalls
and constellations of freckles
that spelt out the words
to the greatest poem
he'd ever read,
along with the letters
of his name.

Maybe he'd worn black jeans,
along with that same shirt,
that grilled his legs
medium rare.
Maybe they stayed rare.
Maybe they stayed moving.
Maybe they didn't.

Maybe that man
had spilt a bag of *******
on this shirt.
Maybe that's why my heart hummed
to the tune of Etta James' "at last"
the first night I wore that shirt
across the table from those
olive eyes.

Maybe that man didn't give a ****,
maybe he understood how silly
it would be
to glue fallen leaves
back on their branches in November.

Maybe that man was a brilliant idiot,
who really didn't give a ****,
and knew how silly it wasn't
to glue fallen leaves
back on their branches in December.

Maybe he said,
"**** the neighbors, watch me glue these leaves
only when you get tired of the news on T.V."

If you want to know what's happening to the world
don't just watch the news every night.
Watch what happens to yourself
after watching the news every night.

Maybe that man's thoughts
moved like gravel
under steel toed boots.

Maybe the moon moved that man,
the way it moves the tides to higher grounds
and brings life to those hot evaporating pools
where an octopus
contemplates leaving,
only by way of
scorching sun baked lava rock
and air that he can't breathe.

It's all for a better life,
isn't it?

Maybe that man
was a house with one small window
with a view of his well earned
green lawn
and white picket fence.

Maybe there were no windows
and he was a cactus
somewhere it rarely rained,
to his own delight and misery.

Maybe he figured out
that the only things that break our hearts
are the things we are willing
to let inside of them.

I'm eating apple pie right now,
and it's one of the few things
I have enjoyed this week.
Most people like apple pie,
including myself.
And maybe he does too.
Maybe that matters.
Most likely it doesn't.

Either way.
We've worn the same shirt
and it's a nice day out.