Lighthearted #2

You woke when my car coughed, and
you tripped up the steps while I drove.
You said it's easier to have no hope
than to have two and choose.
You said it comes down to how
much gasoline I can afford.

I set you a place for dinner, and
I set a record for getting home.
I said the winter only comes rarely
and now it's ours to own.
I said there's room by the hearth,
where I burn my books for heat.

You said the best part of saving
is spending it all in the end.
You said the best part of staying up
is the orange morning light.
You broke an egg, broke the quiet
and said no more highway.

Lighthearted #1

After 25 ounces of 2009 wine,
you told me it's not healthy to drink
by yourself, so I opened a new one
to drink for us both.

When my eyes shut, you said,
"Don't bother coming home."
Half asleep, I said, "This is my house,
and we don't live together."

You said, "In the morning I'll be gone."
In the dark I laughed and said
"I know, but when you get off work
come see me again."

You slept, I hiccuped, and the rain
filled my car. I bit my tongue
to keep from singing
then I slept too.

When I awoke

When I awoke,
a gold hair wrapped around my ear,
across my neck, and into my mouth.

I had half a mind
to wind it around a house key and say
"Here's the rest of you, come back and see me."

Instead, I shook peace
over breakfast with a spoonful of cinnamon
and lay down in the grass to doze again.

So I dreamt
of the Argonaut and a fleece, I set
full sails and flung my sheets starboard.

When I awoke,
the story was unwrapped over me,
and I laughed with my new purpose.

I found you
on a porch swing and we were lifted
into the open sea all morning.

I said, "I have no idea
where my retold odyssey will lead,
but I love this Ithaca."

You leaned back
to rest your head, "Ithaca
also must travel."

Ninety-three

After ninety-three years of her life
and twenty-one of mine,
after she learned the date
and told stories
of her children as children,

Grandmother said to me,
"You're a good man–
you have the integrity
of your father."

I bent down and said I hoped so,
maybe someday at least.

I was afraid

I was afraid to have half a purpose
like the bed sheets of a priest
but you just asked if I'd be back
by dinnertime at least.

I said I'm sorry I lost my way
and that my voice is going hoarse
but you gave me a smile
and pointed me back north.

I said I can drive you out of town
and bake your favorite bread
you laughed and said you didn't care
as long as we got fed.

I was quiet Monday morning
while I learned about myself,
but without plan you took my hand
and put the book back on the shelf.

Hey, old body

Hey, old body, here's your chance
to run downhill, headlong with a girl
and feel your knees buckle in.

Have a little soul

Have a little soul,
'cos this morning I'm going dancing.
Have some fun
and let yourself get thrown around
in the storm.
I never tried to make here safer
but if you're cold,
I'm doing something wrong.

You're a street-walking saint
made of plaster
primer and paint, and I'll follow
blindly at best.

I've never been pushed off the street,
or been invited into a country,
I've never asked for more
than I could carry with me.

But I dashed for the subway,
I snoozed on the ferry, and
I shook along with the bus.
I spent my savings playing roulette
with public transit, where I lost
everything but the frenzy.

When I scraped past the casino,
I remembered "In the long run,
you lose as much as you win.
Andrew, you're better off at home
reading a book."

So I ran on with my
four and a half dollars,
still trying to make myself full.

These months I'm going down a new hill
in a red and black coaster
made of heavy wood.
My Dad built it for my sister and brother
but it's my turn
and I'm not sure if I know how
to use the brakes.

Los Angeles

First, god and the soil
play Go with circle farms
on a board of New Mexico.

West, the hills
turn from chalk to pencil lines
all drowning in peach and gray-pink.

From thirty-two thousand feet
we follow the sun to Los Angeles.
but the haze disappears and the day ends.

Evening hits like a dark marriage
of halogen and mercury vapor,
full of non-repeating beauty and quiet light.

Second, my sister finds me in Burbank,
gives me water, and takes me home.
To be a foreigner and to be found!

Our Orange Line city bus offers me
a five-dollar haven of rattled peace and pulls
the weary through palms and pawnbrokers.

Family of the summer with
new life coming in September,
I had forgotten we stretched this far.