Old Spice’ and wet grass carry years
of understanding between us.
If I break wind, you run to me,
body rapt and heeding,
every hair translating
a smudged paragraph into
volumes of memory.
Rubbernecking my attention
with a fixed gaze,
you are staring at my next question,
willing to
jaw with more whiffs of intimacy.
A jargon of us both
surfacing in her millpond eyes.
Silent odiferous idioms crest
upon her black nose,
a cloddish lingo,
but it outruns anything that could be said.
‘Old Spice’ and wet grass carry years
of understanding between us.
What I wear and you gather into you,
become a language neither of us know,
but comprehend in mouse-tracks of deduction.
You read grease and engine oil, as if grease and engine oil
were two parts of a book left out in the wet,
a chemical patois revealed by an inborn knowledge
of petroleum pipes, and the long-distance howls
of Alaskan wolves.
If I break wind, you run to me, body rapt and heeding,
every hair translating a smudged paragraph or two into
volumes of memory.
Rubbernecking my attention with a fixed gaze,
(No, Timmy has not fallen down an abandoned mine shaft),
you are just staring at my next question,
willing to jaw with more whiffs of intimacy.
Tales of muddy boots, the flash-fiction of urine trails,
(hers and her canine buddies, not mine),
the breezy gossip of each rabbit hole.
A jargon of us both
surfacing in her millpond eyes,
idioms cresting now on her black nose,
a cloddish lingo,
but it outruns anything that could be said.
Exchanging cloddish giggles
Gawky, flailing limbs
Quota, reaching, nibbles
Cloth to dot our chins
Predictable mindless chatter
We must appear intrigued
An opening to flatter
Allows a moment of relief
And during this scenario
Our hearts will both, descend
At the transition of the , stereo
Subject ends, til next begins
Once the fresh tape rolls
Our joy just won’t be tamed
It may not feed our souls
But sets aside our shame
On my usual perch
at my computer
I sit alone today
gazing out the window
on a winter world
of numbing brown and gray.
Touches of green
provide slim respite
from the cloddish chill of day.
Arched wild onion tops
cede to the west wind
in fluttery eastward sway.
Feathered friends flock
to a red metal seed tray
warm in their covering
of myriad bright array
to lend glossy pigment
in a full winged ballet.