There’s no one who could be everything
for me. That’s what I tell you
walking up Seventh, and I think it sounds
good. The flea-market has just opened.
You hold up a mirror for fifteen dollars,
and I see cheekbones and clouds.
I see you sad. And then gone.
In traffic, I check my face.
In windows I remember what my body
looks like, and it is filled with shoes,
then dishware, then locals sitting
at wooden tables. They are hungry.
Once, in a town called Rising Star,
I bought a bag of Fritos
just to use the toilet. The man selling corndogs
had no teeth. He told me to take a right
at the light, then drive like hell.
Sometimes, talking with you, I want
to sell everything I own.
Across the street, women get their hair
done. A father holds his baby
like a newspaper. It is Sunday again,
and everything is for sale. A statue of Mary.
A winter coat with a fur neck. Christmas bulbs.
Upstate, the leaves are turning.
Someone is building a wall.
Someday it will become a house.
People will love in those rooms
but never tell each other.
What’s the happiest you’ve ever been? you ask.
I look around and I am a tree.
The sky is falling with birds.
The street has turned into a river.
You are thankful your body is a boat.
