...of my need to wander
this tired Midwestern town,
struggling to be new.
She understands that St. Joseph
is not the same city as is now present,
That Joseph Robidoux would have to
fish his smart phone from out of his pocket,
dialing 911, and reporting gunshots,
retreat.
Angela acknowledges that I am like this town
in that, my husbandry is radically different than
it was almost two decades before.
She lets me look at my children
as though they were strangers,
inviting them out for a coffee anyway.
Because, why not?
Everyone needs a cup now and then.
Angela steps aside as I strike up
conversations with strangers,
like kitchen matches,
making sure that the pilot lights
of their stories are lit,
like mine.
Knowing that my motives are two-fold,
she and I will sit in the booths of the
greasiest of spoons;
places that are as alive,
on a Sunday morning,
with ideas,
thoughts, facts,
or falsehoods;
as bacteria in a petri dish,
and no one else can see them
but me.
We drink coffee,
eating hash-browns,
slurping egg yolks,
not speaking for several minutes
at a time;
my eyes alert always
to the other patrons and their possible
hardships.
(I like a rough room.)
But, when we do talk,
my wife and I,
on this
"Earlier than everyone else is awake"
excursion...
We laugh.
And, I watch her eyes,
bluer than any ocean I've ever seen,
shimmer.
And, I want more than anything,
to tell a story...
This one.
