some run bare
foot calloused
since childhood–probably
need a shoe horn for the other to drop
by and rub their soles, clean, expose their toes, clean
some say foot massages are too intimate for friends,
but will lay
their boots under your bed,
WELCOME: “Tell me all!”
the parquet border woven like transistors is deceiving
{WHILE A == B DO C IF}
edges fray, yarns will be written,
fly though the wind, the ear,
save their soles from–
“Where are you going? Come back. I miss talking to you.”

No one would ask if you Met a bunny,
but when you hang out inside your MoM(A),
bunnies belong in Kentucky Afield? not Rothko and
the light, pink,
bunny in the corner,
coloring, confusion,
the transparent expression,
“Is he part? Is he art?” guard says,
“Stay!” I herd the free tickets pass
to snap a family photo with Van Gogh:
“I wuz here” to hear
him cry– not the bunny, the man,
inside the night,
a stuffed bunny still died, another piece, another life
skewered through the brisket
above a chalkboard, for art, life
is a bunny outfit–outside of Lent,
no pocket for a MetroCard
no Times Square girl to hand
a torn ear caught in the 1-9 turnstile;
For him “I wuz here” the Artist states.

mortarboards form next week
and fly across another room:
pots will be removed from the kiln,
placed on selling shelves with resumes,

her fingers resume, slippery nails filled,
stuffed to overflow like the glazing shelves,
“this is craft, not art,” curtly said.
the adding . . .subtracting . . .centripetal . . . centrifugal. . .

“what color should this one should be?”
her call? will clay return to rock
for defeating paper,
will she write

her mark brandishing,
initializing the final piece
this Friday night,
the final week,
to fire.

He knew from his backyard porch and oak tree perch, he’d spy
them and play till supper, till dark,
they were here for T-ball, PTO, parents working late,
it was his ground, his yard, his park,

He knew how to spin, to start
the small merry-go-round,
to make you sick,
lean out, legs bound,

He knew which swing chains sound
squeak or sat high enough to glide
left jaundiced palms,
had uneven sides,

He knew where in the rocket ship tree to ride,
to hide under the trailers of special ed,
dragons guarded dungeons
and climbed the web without being wounded,

He knew that jungle gyms were more than houses founded
for girls to fix supper in or teach school,
Gary was a shorter, but stronger bully,
and one always jumps the tile cracks in school

He knew which gutter spout to climb to the roof,
teachers’ kids just played basketball,
rocks were rubies and gold,
the seriousness of his mom’s third supper call.

a dove waits for a patrol of whirling hawks to pass overhead,
from the nest he flies, north, to scratch in the dirt to find his chicks food,
helicopters weedwack his gray head feathers as he flies across the river.

his ground is burnt sienna, desert hard, cracked below, his feet,
the seed owner’s ground is Columbian, American Roast, a little caramel,
and didn’t know anything about doves watering hemp in Brazoria County:
“Where Texas began” from a county of doves.

smothered
Am I onion, cutting, alone?
“does he love me?” she asks.
I said, “This isn’t romance”
as I slid my arm around.

covered
“I love cheese, too” she says,
“American is fake
“and grease is bad.”
She won’t let me pay.

chunked
Hamming it up, no bite, no sip
water untouched
no thirst for talking;
I know her like our waitress,
emm. . . (looking at nametag)

topped
off with ice scream “You chilly?”
“No, nervous–my first date.”

diced
unripe remains of Kyle
and other tropical storms of rejection
crush;
weathered palms cling for anything.

peppered
with smiles, glances, hugs,
phone calls on nights ending in “day,”
I can do no more.
Goodnight.