Woodshop
I’ve made my marks on the wood.
I’ve counted all my fingers.
You say balloons are invaluable.
I suggest radishes.
There’s something about grandchildren.
I mean, I wonder whether points in
time can grow legs. I wonder whether
the face of a clock
has ever seen hopscotch. There’s chalk dust all over
your fingers. There’s a moon looking
to buy goat cheese.
There’s a door over there.
I think it belongs to my neighbor’s brain surgeon.
Hey, bend closer so you can pull back the loose skin.
Bend closer.
It’s nothing like you thought.
*
Liftoff
Cut your cheek on tinsel.
My sister likes movies about vampires.
I worry, though, whether I’ll ever grow old.
The bus has been making an awful new sound.
You look good caught in headlights.
A little to the left. No, a little more to the left.
Keep going. Keep going. Keep going.
Keep going.
Stop.
Now pretend
there’s no such thing as air.
Can you feel the seasons?
Can you pull your boots on?
Can you fly a spaceship?
My brother thinks he’s a superhero.
There’s no fun in liver spots.
My hair is good at finding water.
This cat: genius.
And so now I wait for you
outside the glass. You’re on the inside,
cutting sheets of metal with sheets of metal. I’m barefoot
on the staircase.
My bathtub is a sailboat.
More poetry at Used Furniture.
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