lunch

she struggled with the gritty can opener;
like the one back home--bruised and battered
retching along the grated edge
the shared can of spaghettios torn open.
with coffee, the meal of starving literary types
split in half as well as could be
(even though she shouldn't have given him anything at all)
how was he to know
the sickly tomato smell felt like the John Deere clock at grandmas
the texture of tracing patterns on the olive green rug.
he didn't know that this lunchtime familiarity
processed pasta worse than a deep splinter
was a poor imitation of a life they had
if only in the whimsy of her mind

sneakers

running, running!
shoelaces trickle open
and i break free
tongues wagging behind me
hair cascading
long loose and curly
chasing, flying!

barking up the wrong tree or guardrails

on these road trips
when you're driving
i realize
we may not have had anything in common
and i can feel the greasy roots
of my hair, unwashed, unkempt

until our favorite songs come on
and i hear your laugh again
and even if you don't understand my life
the tea kettles and video games
it's okay

look at the trees
creeping up to the guardrails
look at their highest branches
spindly and vacant

the first bits of sunlight
heat the car burn my face
i don't mind
it forces me to think of books outdoors
and new places

after a long season of new people
and a chill that went deep to the bones
i can't look to you, my past for roots
and we've seen the spaces new leaves should be

look instead at the sap
the deep, sticky syrup deep within me
that feeds me
and makes me alive
the stuff of jane austen novels and acrylic paints

my glasses sit crooked on my nose
and i breathe deeply past the tension in my neck
watching the dents in the guardrail
listening to you once again but
mostly
looking for myself