Templeton, at Lunch Break
Templeton, you ragamuffin
I cannot write a poem about one specific jump-hug
At a 2 AM Mobile Station somewhere in Ohio
The jump-start of a heart stopped
Thinking, Ohgodohgod
If I go down, I'll take her with me
All that asphalt and oil slick, all this journey washed away
All for joy, because she loves me, because she will leap that great distance
Trusting me to catch her
I will be strong, I decide
For what was I comprised of slow thighs and heavy gold
If not for this?
Templeton, you fiend
I never dreamed a kitchen table so laden as ours
The caffeinated hours, the tea-leaves bagged, unread
(We divine our own futures)
Books open, marked for discussion
Spill of olives, scatter of crumbs, an avoirdupois of Brie
I didn't dream to dance to Irish punk
In a pit beneath some dim-lit stage in Providence
Or rage against Shakespeare misquoted
While sipping from your plastic cup of cider,
Leaving my lipstick smear, smiling
Or say to you, admiring the deepening beauty of our foreheads
"This is what our thirties look like."
You call me shutterbug, I call you lightning bee
My darling, my dame, my winter wasp
My unutterable butterfly - but goth, with fangs
Templeton, you tatterdemalion
My tattooed demon, my wicked rat, my moray eel
You make me vulgar, you slattern, you keep me busy
You fill me with the most unseemly jealousy
You prick my pride
Because of you, I yearn toward terrible heights
I take risks, I risk flight
I want to be even better than your boasts of me
I once asked Caitlyn Paxson to write a poem of love-worn-in
Old hiking boot love, the perfect coffee temperature of love
Our Alphas and Omegas, I observed, we record without thought
Our bonfire beginnings, the ecstasies of our grief:
These are easy, poured out molten, of compulsion
But this middle bit -
The crux of the plot -
Our prime -
How to do it justice?
The familiarity, the astonishment, the millstone, the grind
I will write you a poem of our great love
Just an average college friendship
Born in gray-carpeted corridors, on the Metro's dance floor
Ripened in the squalid bitters of Chicago
Tested by departure, seasoned by long-distance phone calls
Fermented in a barrel of inky Edward Gorey postcards
Meteoric, midnight-colored, dyed with Manic Panic
Dripping rhinestones
The middle age of love
I cannot write a poem about one specific jump-hug
At a 2 AM Mobile Station somewhere in Ohio
The jump-start of a heart stopped
Thinking, Ohgodohgod
If I go down, I'll take her with me
All that asphalt and oil slick, all this journey washed away
All for joy, because she loves me, because she will leap that great distance
Trusting me to catch her
I will be strong, I decide
For what was I comprised of slow thighs and heavy gold
If not for this?
Templeton, you fiend
I never dreamed a kitchen table so laden as ours
The caffeinated hours, the tea-leaves bagged, unread
(We divine our own futures)
Books open, marked for discussion
Spill of olives, scatter of crumbs, an avoirdupois of Brie
I didn't dream to dance to Irish punk
In a pit beneath some dim-lit stage in Providence
Or rage against Shakespeare misquoted
While sipping from your plastic cup of cider,
Leaving my lipstick smear, smiling
Or say to you, admiring the deepening beauty of our foreheads
"This is what our thirties look like."
You call me shutterbug, I call you lightning bee
My darling, my dame, my winter wasp
My unutterable butterfly - but goth, with fangs
Templeton, you tatterdemalion
My tattooed demon, my wicked rat, my moray eel
You make me vulgar, you slattern, you keep me busy
You fill me with the most unseemly jealousy
You prick my pride
Because of you, I yearn toward terrible heights
I take risks, I risk flight
I want to be even better than your boasts of me
I once asked Caitlyn Paxson to write a poem of love-worn-in
Old hiking boot love, the perfect coffee temperature of love
Our Alphas and Omegas, I observed, we record without thought
Our bonfire beginnings, the ecstasies of our grief:
These are easy, poured out molten, of compulsion
But this middle bit -
The crux of the plot -
Our prime -
How to do it justice?
The familiarity, the astonishment, the millstone, the grind
I will write you a poem of our great love
Just an average college friendship
Born in gray-carpeted corridors, on the Metro's dance floor
Ripened in the squalid bitters of Chicago
Tested by departure, seasoned by long-distance phone calls
Fermented in a barrel of inky Edward Gorey postcards
Meteoric, midnight-colored, dyed with Manic Panic
Dripping rhinestones
The middle age of love