You’re the reason for my favorite poem,
why I buy extra-strength whitening toothpaste,
the best part of Mondays.

You’re a showtune in the shower,
my pre-slumber what-if,
and also the best part of Tuesdays.

I worry that you notice
when my shoes smell bad
so I bought the expensive kind of Febreeze.

Sho, who is strong,
is really but a tiny
thing....

always the outcast,
always thought,
to be...
somehow, wrong.

but ever,
with a smile
and a song.

no matter, what
sticks or stones,
are flung his way.
no matter, what
unkind, unthinking
words they say.

Sho Enuff, would smile,
and sing a showtune. sometimes that's
why people would,
call him a loon.

but,
Sho, knew,
something we did not.
his heart was pure
it was in theirs,
the insecurity, the rot.

Sho, was strong,
within himself,
knew he was made
from god's wealth,
of love and compassion

so took no heed,
of others and their,
trashing.

Sho Enuff was tiny
Sho Enuff was small
but Sho Enuff
was the best....
of them all.

I fell for you all late summer steam and dark humid rain,
            electrically charged fingertips and cursive smiles.
I didn’t even open my eyes in the deep to
            see and mourn what I had lost ...

The moment you balanced your feet next to mine on the curb and
            bowed your head
            to hear the absentminded showtune
                        on my breath like whiskey,
            whispering to me in my tapered silence that you
wanted to hear me sing,
            with earnest like opened peach halves so raw and sweet
            that my voice obeyed
                        before I had the chance to decide ...

The breath you took when I whipped around
            in my bus seat to offer you a pink polka-dotted grin,
and the delighted children we became in our anticipation,
            all crossed stars and side glances savored like chocolate truffles
                        too thick and syrupy to devour whole ...

I fell for you all sweaty foreheads and damp pavement,
            full palms and knotted stomachs –
I always knew that my concavity had a counterpart.

But then the ache in my lungs when,
            with bellies full of Dippin Dots and funnelcake,
            retinas imprinted with neon orange lights,
            throats scratchy from belting and laughing,
            your hand burning my thigh in the dark and
            my head on your shoulder,
you rested your head
            on mine
            too,
            hard and heavy,
                        straining my neck, and

girls are told that they will be
            held and carried,
but love is not gilded or glittered,
            not a pedestal or throne,
            not a carnival or sweaty palms,
            not plastic smiles or chocolate truffles,
            not whiskey or shared melodies sung quietly in the rain.

I fell in love with you that night,
            nothing but hard, heavy heads on bony, tired shoulders.