get to work (why the fuck did I write this poem)

the feel of your toes

pressed into the shape God gave me

immediately eases my mind

returns me to an earlier state of humanity -

all winter I would see them

buried, barely visible

in a forlorn region of the closet

and wonder if they were fossils

think aloud sometimes how could they possibly still be formed to fit you perfectly

I look down at you now

with a brushing of early summer tan

and think of all the fucked up

far out places

you have taken me

or I have taken you

we have gone together

the gas peddles we pressed

just a bit too enthusiastically

but a boy never forgets

his first trip to California

the year we hiked 3 high peaks

or the time we kicked the kickball

into a pile of poop in the Kraus’s yard.

I’m sorry I’ve stubbed you both