Thursday, July 22, 2004

Longing

Longing, Part I

I want to learn happiness the way others do it
with lazy lunches
occasional silence
and coats thrown together on a kitchen chair.

To stay in someone’s life,
my name coffee-stained in their address book
and permanently on the Christmas card list.
To let my stomach hang out and put my feet on the chair and say “no”
and have it be all right.

Look --
I have no god
have a clogged kitchen sink
feel no obligation to do volunteer work,

but I can laugh loud,
make you dozens of cookies,
understand when you cry,
And although I don’t often do gifts, I will always, always remember your birthday.

Longing, Part II

I want to learn happiness the way others do it
with bodies clasped after the sweating,
lives completely entangled,
underwear mixed in the hamper.

To trust like the baseball trusts the mitt,
to swoon like cut grass after the scythe,
to think as deep as a matchbox.

Can I try that kind of love? Borrow it like a precious library book?
Or like my friend’s prized mink, just see if it fits?

No? All sales final?

Some other time then.

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