How are
you

asked me first

not wanting the
answer as much

as the breath

there are reasons
I remember
my first car
all the grease and dents
sweat on a dry summer night
more than say my “third”

honesty wasn’t deferred then
you just knew.

never
not this time

what are
you

doing time

breathe
it’s more comfortable that way

I never slammed my
fingers in her doors

she didn’t view my
gas money as
en(title/trap)ment

that oxygen tank
resting at the ready
in the corner of your heart

exhale. you’re safer now
honest.

© Tom Watters  3/13/08

or tall…
you always seem distracted
by tall

average and heartless
and weighing in at 5’10”
not much of
a distraction

in this night’s sea

red sky at morning
brings one to Wisconsin
and its promise of cheddar
cheesecake

I’m not a traditional
meateater
and yet neither is there an orchid
blooming where the memory
of her eyes
once were

you spell it out
like a speak and spell
blunt but easily stopped
by a tug of a string

the kindest interpretation
that money can shy away from
on a late Thursday night.

I remember arriving here
waiting for you
receiving your entourage
instead of my smile
instead of a semblance of grace

grace

just a word in a dictionary
or a Gideon’s bible
judge not
lest ye be forgotten

or worse yet
called
for the sake
of create
tivity

let’s blow this popsicle stand

© Tom Watters  3/9/08

to relieve my hope
I sleep with open hands
waiting for rain
not the fleece
of the enumerated flock

remember?
our air was not
gasped
but savored.
even that truck’s lift gate
sounded like Miles’ muted trumpet

no excuse
just the softness of your breathing
between the down
the laughter that spilled
from dark green bottles uncorked.

language led to sign-language
sonar and clumsy semaphore
hell.
we came from Navy town
the least we could do is fight rust

in the end
we forgot how

how to, how much, how long

taking lady liberties
by strategic posture
misguided by crossed passions
that we served up
from paper cups

I wait for the rain
effortless and honest
whispering dryly
through thin wispy lips
stories of that which was lost

2/28/08

sentiment once
engaged four–or was that six
a practiced backhand
in this pandemic of social tennis

walk on the edges of my extremities
a mouth-breather in
the rubber rooms of your
shadow

self

timid note-taking turns

recently buying table scraps
ensures a bite to eat
a ride on the yellow rocketship
outside the grocery

public satisfactory seconds

waiting for the keys

the reflection of judgment
dismissed like yesterday’s Times

tenderness in
alligator armor

© Tom Watters  12/5/07