When I watch
the fat drops of rain
hit on the cactus leaf
facing the bare sky
and bounce to fall
from the rough edge
as if a rejection
of its stubbornness,
you
prod my forefinger,
its tip and curve,
a soft automaton
of skin and bones
directing the nerve
towards my nostrils
for spontaneity
and long picking.
When I stare
at the slow dance
of the daylight
on the waxed floor,
walnut and laminate,
the window open
for the usual noise
of birds and leaves,
you
nag without thoughts
plotting in my head
that I can do this
something loose
in my long waiting
for the sunset,
the melon moon,
and the dead stars.
When I look
at the vast blankness
of the stucco wall,
rough and off-white,
as though struggling
to recall the words
my lips wish to utter
between sighing puffs,
you
nudge me again
to collect all your bits,
soot, and gooey gunk
I can mold into a ball
and show in the future
to friends or anyone
as my damn six years
of ****ing solitude.
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