find skulls and write poems
in the back seat
staring at me through the rearview mirror
catch the hazel
put it on your page
break the skin where i've mended it
tell me it's for the best
drown my handmade pottery with your coffee
and your smoke
tease your tongue with the air that touches me
you hold it there while
you take such lovely photos
of the bottoms of the people that
try so hard to look their best
you paint pretty pictures of old women
whose wrinkles resemble lines drawn in
the sand you find in North Ontario.
They were bred by long nights
Born from moments when life is
where you can only reach it on your tippy-toes.
There's a stick and a sling and both can help
keep you together for now.
Instead you take nothing for yourself
and give me that last little bit of whatever it is
you've been saving.
And you've saved it for so long in your back pocket
where you found the button that belongs to
some old cardigan your papa had
when your papa still was.
You tell me you live to
And here is a place riddled with laugh lines
and yellow finger tips
and people i've never met
and will never meet.
why must you be selfless
with those things you cherish.
keep me for yourself.
You travel like a man penetrating the walls
What guards you does not stop you
and then i ask how you can be like
that man we used to talk about
who never let anyone
touch his papa's cardigan.
And now my friends are telling me
how lovely my new sweater is.
But I rest where this fabric rests
And wonder what lives in your back pocket,