Losing ground like being scared
of people who travel too much.
Who are they going from?
or to? even though I suppose
I do the same.
Lost paperwork that someone said
was important, so points
of origin
will reveal themselves
at the bakery, at the damnedest of times.
I grew up an orphan:
my sister out back losing her mind.
I grew up at the side of the road
early one morning.
All that matters
sometimes
is a drink.
Out in the sun all that matters
is a good handshake and sunglasses
to keep the moment, to maintain
a dance, to include someone.
Supple time in the trees
leads to swaying
embraces and vigor
and days later,
a last smell of the fireside sweatshirt
before washing the ash away.
