Selected Poems
Roots, again
The last time, we spoke was years ago, when we moved, again, and
everything owned waited, heavy in cardboard boxes, on the front lawn
for the moving truck to arrive. We would have been ruined if it rained, again.
Taking a break, we lunched on what was left in the fridge.
Lord knows, you knew how to handle a trowel, and
rested your left arm, stained with grease and grout
next to a hammer and tongs, measured just right of a folded ruler.
On planks of wood spread on a makeshift saw-horse table.
we ate Italian bread out of that old blue granite wear bowl
with a half-moon wedge of provolone, chunks of pepperoni
gulped the last of the chianti, in clear plastic cocktail cups.
Not the typical fare, because leaving felt different, that time.
Another late summer sun ticked time and burned our backs.
Why were there always new places, like a band of nomad minstrel
boys never putting down roots, beyond another generation?
Since every grandfather, we moved a little more west, each time.
We pull ourselves by a fool's bootstraps, play our dog and pony show.
again, dusted off, a limited engagement, coming soon to a house near you.
Suddenly the phone rang, we heard your voice, excited, again.
You were back in town and this time it is to stay. Don't even ask
you can crash at our home, until you can get to your going, along.
Or maybe you could stay. We could all build something, here, that lasts.
