The world breathes gospel when I am around you—
My father agrees and worships your name.
(Although he would frown at your crow's feet
and your fingers stained with cigarette burns
and your breath of ash
and your gold band twisted around your finger)
And I too pretend that I am wise sometimes
and so I look away and think of:
Flowers blooming in the spring.
Wet rain against the car window
and your hand in mind.
--the last part always varies because
I am always running away from my own self.
I think of old:
Disco tapes.
Broken guitar strings.
Bad singing.
Shy smiles.
Rimbaudean angst
and I will always think of you.
And the funny thing is that I could easily
replace your name with someone else's
and you will still remain married
with children
(or you are nearly there)
and you will still look at me as though I were a child—
and the funny thing is that I don't mind.
Not really.
