ONCE

ONCE


Once I sat at a corner booth, ordered
a drink, said, let’s see where a sunny
afternoon can go. A thrift store,
a garage sale. Say a water fountain,
a bag of ice, rain if you will.

I once wore socks, thick, blue, and fresh
enough from the dryer. Call it a stack of
papers, call it letters already with stamps.
I am old enough to find even my first drunk
boring. My college transcript no more
interesting than yours.

True, we once watched autumn orange
in windows, rippled the way old
glass melts. We bookmarked the best
paragraphs.

I spend more and more time with hair in the drain.
The TV goes on and I am a kid kicking gravel.
Goodwill shopper, just a snapshot.
Me, the wide laugh, head tilted back,
a porch a century old, Craftsman and stucco,
saying Beethoven left the gap in his narrative arch,
cottonwood against creeks matter,
you and me should start correspondence.

We watch the TV for our names,
no longer write but chew on envelopes.
Rent has gone up, true; but the sweater
is still the sweater.

I once wore clothes picked up from the floor.
Now they are the same and ask me these questions.
The picture yellows, a smile.