poem

Wake up on Tullah's floor. Try and
try again to get some more z's
but can't, bright sunlight streams in
to this sixth story apartment, coloring
the room creamy and uplifting
crisp blue. A grumpy couple grumble
and apologize in the next room. The others
are still asleep and rightly so, I couldn't take
the stiff floor on my aching neck, I said
I'd have two drinks, and I did, but they were stiff
now I am too, should down water.

In this room it's still quiet.
You can see how buildings are built,
you can almost hear people dreaming
in a room this crowded with
active imaginations and soft breathing
through mouths and noses. I dreamed
a couple good lines of a poem, in my dream
I knew I was dreaming and promised
I'd remember those lines and write them down
when I awoke. Poof! All I remember is
something about 'said my father, said my mother'
and that's it.

He's fine. Beaming. That boy wakes up
happy every day. Why shouldn't he?
Excited for another adventure here on Earth.
Eager to see if things are the way he remembers them
from the day before. Some say each day is a gift
unwrapped by the early sun rays and the predawn birdsongs,
that each object is fresh, replaced each morning.
That's kind of exciting, but kind of sad. We know things get old,
bootsoles wear down, blue jeans tear at the knee and crotch,
things sweeten, or ripen with age,
with use, with neglect, think of roofs, they are so
damn expensive to replace.

Once I was in Nashville, Memphis, New Orleans,
once I was in Albuquerque, Tucson,
San Diego, Tijuana, once I was
in transit, in the desert, it was the middle
of the night, it was snowing,
I was waiting for someone,
I was rushing to meet someone,
I saw a man picking up stubs
of cigarettes, a squirrel in a garbage can,
once I was in Seattle, Vancouver, Portland,
the odometer broke 200,000
on the bridge over the Hood River,
we drove down out of the Rockies
alongside a stream that kept growing
wider, angrier, choppier, all the while
I was in Indiana, Massachusetts, Ohio,
Pennsylvania, I was dreaming of
going back to Mexico, letting my hair
grow wild, being a farmer.

I was married and my first child was born. The river
took us through Idaho and into Washington, we crossed
the border at a confluence, security took his camera away
at the checkpoint, we left our film on the radiator
and the pictures came out all distorted,
more like memories, we saw bison, I think we walked
within spitting distance of them. We thanked god
they were herbivores, we asked permission
and they let us pass that frostbitten morning.
That everything-is-new, wraps-its-arms-around-you,
open-your-eyes-and-keep-dreaming morning.