Something like dry pavement carelessly 
smothering the life out of soil,
and not about me, only, as the sometime
target of festering resentment, 
but this, also, for the untold others 
who have felt their true-selves 
yanked away. Or the memory 
itself, or the desire for forgetfulness
that today’s small smile will mask.
An agreeableness that could look
like confidence or a reclaiming 
of some inner ghost. I wanted to write
about what we knew of ourselves.
But maybe better to let this pen clatter 
to the desktop as I rush out the door, 
find the stranger in a Hawaiian shirt 
who wanted to high-five for fun
on Main Street, just across the tracks. 
Or even to find the one who ran— 
who could hold my hand in the drowsy-soft
afternoon. Together we’ll build an altar 
of bright rain falling on flowers.