would I wake up at 430 am to go meet you
at the gym at 530 am, in the rain, only to work
out for two hours and then part ways, just
a glance, and a wave, and a ‘bye’ (no hugs;
we’re both so sweaty) and then separate breakfasts
and then I’m thinking of you all day, and you
forget we had even worked out in the morning,
(even though you were the one who suggested it)
you’re just too busy with the plans for the ski
trip, which is understandable because it will be
very fun but needs a lot of pre-thought, and Chris
wants you to know he can’t make lunch but he’ll
see you tonight, and it’s almost 4 pm and I’m still
wondering when you got those new neon green and pink
sneakers and thinking about when I made that joke
about that sports anchor, and you laughed while on
the treadmill, and oh, god I need a shot of something?
yes, of course, I’m trying to keep up healthy habits these days.
Scorpions are book guards, maybe, I have recently learned.
They might like to meander around old tomes and codices
looking for mites and lice to eat up. This sustains them
and saves our books, I think. Arachnids methods for survival
and procreation and entertainment stay largely unknown to me.
I have never befriended one, or bothered spending any serious amount
of time attempting conversation. Closest I have come:
talking to myself while writing, a tiny spider weaving something in between
a home and a trap, something that will sustain her, and keep her safe,
five feet up and to my left, in a corner of my room.
I like the name Hero and I like the name Rose;
I like the name Lilith, I prefer verse to prose.
I like the name Rita, and Jane, and Christine,
and I like Sophia, Becky, and Jean. My, what a team
she says, flying through the air. Victoria is just
with flowers in her hair. Prove us wrong, I dare
Candy bar fantasy. Sweet dreams are made of that.
A kid’s mind: All sprinkles and golden labs?
Maybe a muddle of mixed signals. So much stimuli.
Reactive too, quick to judge, their logical side guided
by a tiny, tiny heart.
Lips that flip and hair that stuns leaves you wooed.
She could care less, the careless wanderer
of love-worlds. This is her day and she’s more
goddess than human here,
and now you notice how the lamps turn her hair
into halo; how her face profiles perfectly; how
deep you are into herself. It defies grammar how
she greets and meets your friends and family;
there: they’re stricken with a presence that needs
no introduction. Beats me how you’ve survived.
Maybe her gaze is a drug and you’re an addict.
Maybe she’ll mark you for life and then fly off.
I lasted 9 months roughly, more alive than never.
Happy birthday, Lovely; we’re still birds of a feather.