Daddy Was A Real Good Dancer

Joe wants to know
how old I am (coworker
banter). This year

I’m three feet and sixty
pounds turning in circles
of grass stained dungarees.

Or sixteen and freed
for the next hundred miles
by five gallons of gasoline.

I’m simple, sun-faced,
and happy. This year,
I contain the first few

moments inside a woman,
my fortieth birthday, too many
Sundays flailing in ecstasy

cheering for a miracle catch
on TV. I’m every gap in memory,
each darkness, all the nights

I’d take back, the lost transit
from this city to that.
The traffic to work,

all the curses. Older
than my father before
my birth. I’m uncharted.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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