while you wait

for it to be worth it,

remember the land is still green.

the ocean still blue in most places

flowers still peek.

the hills still reach up

and you can too.

That's how it was when we sat together

When we were young - we could not tell

That time changed the weather

(Or weather changed time).

I remember holding your face in my hands,

Checking for new pimples in astonishing

Sunlight. I used to think I could kiss you

But you always looked too sad.

I didn't want to be your reason. So I

Pinched your nose or rubbed your head

Like a stranger gets to know a toddler

Or a pregnant woman's belly.

There was a beach where we lay out.

I'd bury you

Until you were a part of the shell count.

Until you shifted sands and poked out your

toes and arms.

We would sit with our pinkies

Tangled.

How we owned our little places and never

thought 'how young we are to feel this or that

thing'.

In the morning there are

three boats, one of them is humming

Hm hm hm hm hm. I like to listen to it

Because I know that it is going somewhere,

it is going somewhere soon.

This boat is blue but at the water line the blue

is itchy with silver streaks where it was

scratched by berth.

When it began, it was clean but now it is

dirty with time, dirty with growth;

silvery scum of moving.

In the morning, the boat is humming

and sometimes I hear her from home and

sometimes only when I stand at the gray gate

of the port. The other two are still silent.

I am waiting to be let in. I am waiting to be

part. When will they open the gate?

When will I jump the fence?

Sometimes, my humming blends in,

and sometimes my humming is louder.

I realize I have turned into

One of those people I pitied

Hated.

I hate my job and

Every day

In this moment I am screaming to

Be let out with the lions.

Get out. Get out. Get out.

what usually happens is

I tell you a story

and you are listening

for the ending, I think,

with either impatience or hope.

I used to think of women

like her. That they had

Husbands who rubbed 

their shoulders and children

who went to school on buses that left

before seven.

They lived in gracious, clean

houses with lawns

as green as limes

from a Caribbean backyard.

I used to think - I cannot reach that

Kind even if I stand on the front edges

of my shoes and rock the tree.  

Even if my pardna give me wings.

I got the low hangers.

But she is sitting alone. 

She is drawing shapes on to the 

countertop.

She is dreaming of life

like I am

with Caribbean limes bouncing high

on branches in our backyard.