By David Diaz
Almost as crisp as a ninetyfourseven smooth number.
Gently placed piano strokes
escalating towards a menagerie of the nearly visual.
Beckoned back, returning
has become a routine.
I’m not spent,
on the routine sure, but the song is golden.
Something about the movement,
the way the words come in
upon the steady roll of drums,
echoes of piano glowing from behind,
tempo waltzing on all fours, counting
past lives as a dance step;
I still see my grandpa’s house:
I was young
in that front yard
with all those trees and deadly rocks.
In that sun- the mellow
yellow globe that charged my every move.
I had ten too many toy guns
but Rambo didn’t mind,
and I was there for a reason.
The sense makes just as much
to someone who knows just as little
as I-–but don’t think about it so intensely.
That song takes me there, though.
I get that easy feeling
and stick it to my car window
while the sun ballets across my dashboard,
rays shaken through thatched
branches, waving hello in their Spring,
while I drive between them, bending.
Flaking Kodak prints of freeway
under my tires,
car flung down cold asphalt
through cities with no names,
void of people and food.
Music in the stereo, smoke in our lungs and drink in our bellies,
we’d probably be happy for a while.
Me hearing you talk and read and write,
your laugh. Telling me what you spy,
watching you roll a cigarette,
getting to look at you whenever I want.
Summer skin is impenetrable
if you forget you’re wearing it.