Gatherings

3.29.14

Laugh, laugh.  Whip of cold air from the automatic doors.  Greg nudges Milo out of the way, crowds me against the register and says this my homie.  We're debating the ethics of funeral afterparties: can you call them afterparties?  Jake says post-funeral gatherings.  I say shut the fuck up, Jake.

I get to leave work early to go to the funeral afterparty, so they're giving me shit.  No one's saying sorry.  The guys from grocery keep coming through, buying energy drinks and calling me sweetheart.  Jake says what, I don't get to call you sweetheart?  I say shut the fuck up, Jake. 

An old guy wearing bike shorts winks and tells me to keep the change.  I tell him, flatly, that we're not allowed to take tips, and that deflates him a little.  Whose funeral?  Milo's playing with the edge of the counter, grabbing it and hanging on, leaning back to test his grip.  My grandfather, I say.  Old? he says.  90.  He nods.  Cold air again as a customer lingers in front of the automatic doors.  There's a happy baby shriek from a couple registers down.  Milo stretches to look.

My next customer pays for six scones with coins only, Jake snorting behind me the whole time.  I had a dream I had a daughter last night, says Milo when I turn back around.  Yeah? I say.  Yeah.  She went from fitting in my palm to like, four years old.  But in a day.  He shakes his head.  I think I got baby fever, he says, can guys have that?  Ana overhears and shouts better stay away from me, papi, I don't want none of that.  Her first day here I told her she was prettier even than Milo.  She was shy and I was trying to make her laugh and now it's an inside joke I think.  A couple customers laugh like they're in on it. 

Found poem from Facebook statuses

3.28.14

1.
I see her at night, clear as fields.
We pour into Kapaa for a few ripe cherry tomatoes
and our first solo pints of universal law.

She's the only air-
I'm just beginning.  
Pretty flowers throw shade
and threaten each other's deliciousness.


2.
We're together again,
doing some inside joke about
living halfway down a very tall tree.
There's no moon, I have to document it.

Madeleine, someone is saying, don't be soft,
be tough to the end of the story. 

I'm just saying we haven't talked in ages.
I'm just having the craziest week
'cause you're so beautiful.


3.
I see her at night,
clear as fields.
Certain as whole tat soi leaves
singing the late blight blues.

Hearts are certain.
Hearts are soft-
gold hidden deep in the drain,
peaches pale as the shore.

Can a soft thing fracture?
What ending is this?
What story?