Would that I could
they take polaroids on the camera chained to the bench
and angels gather around me;
I swat at them because I am trying to write
and there are always miracles interfering
with what I’ve got to get done.
It’s hotter outside than it’s been
my dress sticks, releases, clings, hangs
like a child to it’s mother
and I swat at my dress,
like it was my child.
The air inside dries out all of our
glasses, (until the foam
is sap stuck to some non tree compostable)
crooks behind knees.
No one could tell me
from a successful adult right now.
No one will ask me for an extra napkin,
or a spoon.
They have put the camera down
and are still posing.
One angel slaps the back of my neck
It is not too hot to fight back,
but I am too slow.
The same man who looked like
that other man I looked
up to is carrying something important;
Important things happen all the time.
I don’t have to remember the timeline
to tell the truth.
It gets colder inside.
I should hop on my bike.
Should remember why I came.
Should keep sending those same messages
with the same pair of shoes
to the one
who will write back
and leave the letter
in a country I’ve never been.