You'd think the sky would run out of water.
I'm making snow angels from burnt sugar
and the wonder I feel is more like a celebration
of goons. Some marvel at the breath I can see
escaping from me. Others will suggest some
medicinal weight like opiates in iced-tea.
Are you exploiting a natural resource? Does someone
think of you and turn the channel?
Have you blanked out on the cage of follies?
I am certain of something I'd prefer
to tell you about. "Slow down" you say. But I
can already see my breath and it's only October.
Walking with you in the rain is making everything
watery and spazzed out like a movie about jazz
where I play sax and people are all like
"he's amazing, we really like his style!"
But I digress. Won't you pour the warm cream
of your hands on the small of my back?
Won't you stand up when called upon to tell
the audience how wonderful I was in my best moments
almost like a god among men or at least someone in
upper management delegating things and being sure
of everything but love. I promise I'll make this up to
you. I'll write your name in chalk on the menu
board and people will come into the store
all expectant of miracles. Your face on a wet spot
on a box "she's here so we can leave." Apparitions are so 2009.
I don't want this to end. I'll keep writing
poems to the editor, I'll make a list and mark things off
that I've started doing just in case things get really good.