The trees keep reaching but never get to heaven
Steinbeck in the corner and four pots on the stove,
a misdiagnosis of cancer and treacle
drying in my beard
from mornings before I could grow a beard
but could color the hell out of some pages,
create a dozen new games before changing from my pajamas,
run away from home
and be back again before lunch.
This building is building
and I can’t blame the neighbors for complaining
but maybe if we held hands for a while
the demons would go away
and these walls would never need another coat of paint.
Wasn’t it grand,
those skinned knees,
and all the other abuse we stacked on ourselves.
Perfect seams are great
but pockets are worth the price.