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You with your iron legs and bags filled
with groceries, alarm clocks,
bowling trophies: you who
ganked the mantled picture of sweet little muffin
wearing ice cream
on the mouth, the shirt, or what
I’m really after: witless, swarthy collapsations,
the one vulgar half-loved moon
trudging slow but bright on sylvan shadows in
particular: moments
that define your escape, its inimitable sense
of failure: you who could not get past the guards holding
midnight in small jars,
to drink, pour back into
language, rivers, community: don’t go back there.
Let me remember something for you, it’s
about your father, or it’s
about time you started running, walking.