The way we are

If I tried to dream you
out of whole cloth,
what a disservice it would be.
We speak in print,
with proper letters and cadence.
There’s ample time
to consider a question or a statement,
or to bid a gentle goodnight.

I apply and project my idea of you,
as a sculptor might,
from raw clay and memory.
You have never posed, I think,
and you are real and proud.
Noble qualities you exhibit,
and because I am not noble,
I rationalize and dismiss.
And, unworthy, I mash the clay,
and start again.

One track mind

Tell out loud
how good coffee lingers
like nicotine fingers.
Remember now
how a curly head kid
had to keep up with Dad,
no proffered hand,
in a strange land
of cigars and racing forms.
*Outta my way, kid.*
And men behind wickets
spat out the tickets
but seldom gave us money back.

And now, coffee cooling,
I think of tag-along days that are long gone.
And I remember how Dad always smelled of cigars,
though he never smoked one.
And how I came home from those days of loss
to a crying mother
and fights in the kitchen.