Playing Cards      

I’ve got a full cup of coffee day agenda heart.

I’ve got an ambitious, lively, beautiful, fierce friend.

I’ve got full transformational bookcases.

I’ve got poems about lucky bus tickets. 

I’ve got woodcuts.

I’ve got enough isolation. 

But I am not central to this.

Neither are you.  

What we have is space, thing, space, thing, space, mostly space.

In the spaces, the air moves sometimes gently.

We make six hundred pages of mistakes. 

You need a driver, but I need a drink.

The air moves sometimes fiercely.

A lot happens.

A lot has happened.

We were young and moody and the music hurt our eyes.

The music hurt our eyes.

We made squares around the easy things.

We slept in every room.

We read “The Billy-Goat That Went to Heaven,” and “Half the Village’s Great Grandfather,” and “Death of the Village Thief.”

That was enough.

When the teacher punished us by ordering us to put our heads down on our desks, we liked it.

We had long winter nights in the house and wild dancing ones in the barn.

The story didn’t end, but we stopped telling it.

We wanted to be great.

Now we just want to be good.

Once

Once in a long while the planet taps you on the shoulder and tells you what to do and what to say and what not to. 

What goes for you, goes for me, sometimes double, sometimes half.

Do you want me here or not?

I leave my door half open which indicates you’re not invited, but welcome.

To the intelligent man standing next to the intelligent rock, we only say “morning” because it’s not good.