Together

Nearby, twenty people gathered to listen to bad poetry:

rhymes that were not anchored in ideas, 

or slim thoughts that swung from branch to branch, 

never finding their way down to the roots. 

Nearby, two women and one man worked: 

foaming lattes, pouring chai tea, 

selling coconut macaroon vegan cookies, 

wiping down a rich wooden counter. 

Nearby, seven singles on seven laptops: 

hunting the internet, typing emails, 

looking up references to support thick textbooks, 

listening to music, small pods in ears. 

With all of this, we sat and drew. 

Drew about Austin, filling the circle with the fullness of us. 

Her turn, my turn, 

sharing all 48 colors in the box. 

This may look like a pretty platter to you, 

but for me, it is this: laying together, 

give and take, holding space, 

then holding hands on an open street. 

This is a quilt, a bed, a cupcake. 

This is a chicken coop, feeding baby Muskrat. 

This is a ring, a shirt, a bag, 

a pair of pants that fit, 

then came off, draped across a bed. 

This is the plate of migas, 

this is the bowl of starry sky, 

this is the road that took us from one home to another, 

two hands on the stick shift, 

downshifting when needed, 

listening for the rev of the engine, 

then her voice saying "Now, now."