dug up

in the dream
i was visiting joolie
for the weekend (i thought)
but then, before i knew it
we were on our way to the airport
to somewhere in mexico
but i was fretting about
only packing for a weekend in san francisco
and not a scorpio 40th birthday travel journey extravaganza
which means
i didn’t pack my sandals and i certainly
didn’t pack my passport
but, luckily enough
turns out my passport was in a drawer right off the room
where we were buying our tickets at the airport
and then we were somewhere oceany
spanish spoken
still sandal-less but
the colors and textures fed us
and we were reliant on my minimal spanish
which made things interesting
but which also meant i was practicing
my spanish in my sleep
especially when joolie was chasing after the bus i was on
terra cotta and pink roof tops blurring past
and i was trying to tell the driver
to stop so we could pick her up


my turn to cry i say proceeding to share
the similie of a backhoe to the gut
dug up

the thing about the poems i write is that
everybody is just looking for
a filament of hope


bursts of laughter lifting
from the common house and carried
across main street in the sun
during the week-in-preview

patches of sound
picked up throughout the day of
geese V-ing
on one small overheard blip of their
great migration

kurt and i jolly-laughing and hugging
in the hallway because of the theatrical manner in which
i answer the
call to dinner
un-hang that head! i call to alline
who is telling me things about
the leftover dinner enchiladas
and responds with an A+ rendition
of the opposite of head-hanging


alline describing the
great wobbling multi-layered
8th birthday chocolate wacky cake
and kurt sharing how he shimmed it
with clipboards when he saw it
on the counter

third fig of the season off
cob’s porch/deck tree
dark and soft and sweet


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