Maybe you can afford to wait. Maybe for you there’s a tomorrow. Maybe for you there’s one thousand tomorrows, or three thousand, or ten, so much time you can bathe in it, roll around it, let it slide like coins through your fingers. So much time you can waste it. But for some of us there’s only today. And the truth is, you never really know.
you’re meandering around on your bicycle
in a snowstorm
praising the ice on the streets for being so shiny.
I don’t even think you have a heart beat.
I think you have a heart kiss.
If think if you listened to it with a stethoscope it would sound like:
kiss kiss…….kiss kiss…….kiss kiss………
You make Mary Oliver look like Quentin Tarantino.
I’d give anything for film footage of you
in your suspenders and mohawk
handing out love letters to strangers.
Or you walking downtown with your 20 pound typewriter
to type love poems for the lonely.
Nobody ever believes me
when I try to describe your hand-puppet theater
or your ukulele singing
or the ferris-wheel spinning of your parking lot dance