mo(u)rning

this booth bench feels like bus bench

that passes road sign to road sign

all deep fried, all stir fried

all starry eyed

and pining

misty for the tides of abandon

 

this passing,

I’ll make it a tradition

and keep it a secret

between you and me

I’ll give you every Sunday morning on benches

frozen lakes on the steam of my coffee

 

people are, to us, who we were to them

and I suppose I miss being Monkey

the world of family is not drawn by legal pads and eagle seals

but by sounds, remembered smells,

by laughter and plants on the walls

 

I wish to honor you and

sit across from all the you’s

on this bus of a booth that

could be anything

 

the truth is,

I feel bigger than this immediate corner

I feel bigger than the left or right corner

bigger than clumsy evening

or skin to skin battle,

desperately distracted

in search of family

possibly

left behind

 

 

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shame

and I felt embarassed

when they carried my grandmother down the stairs

as she cried

I felt embarassed

for myself

for the helpless

for the premature nostalgia

for this unconscionable shame

codependency

And the prize goes to the woman

So afraid of being “girl”

That she shut her eye and waited

For life to come to her

Charge forward

Free of shackles

And others’ doorways

Charge forward

In your own track &

Mudprints

Charge forward

Through windows &

Broken radiators

Carve forward a

History without

“His & hers” footnotes