A. and J.

There was Abracadabradara.

She was known to be and held to be, when in the arms
or voices of those who loved her, just Abra.

And there was Jamal.

He was Jamal everywhere.

They were poor when it comes to money, but not everything
comes to money. So they were not poor.

The relationship of Abra and Jamal in the world was unspecified;
that is, the world didn’t know what to call it. But that was a problem
for the world and not for Abra and Jamal, who were often
just together. This is how people with unspecified relationships
often are. They are just together.

Sometimes, they liked to eat toast together and read books
together, sitting in a rainy window nook or the window
in the back that looked down on the trainyards.
And sometimes they liked to read books and eat toast
in the rainy nook or the trainyard window. They liked
to mix it up. They did not read toast and eat books,
as some people do. Doubtless, those people were around
Abra and Jamal at many different times, as they walked through
the city on their innocent travels, as they walked down the
sidewalk together, which is what sidewalk is about.  Innocent travels.
I mean, If we examine the matter of sidewalks. So many people
seem to get it confused, what sidewalks are about. But sidewalks
are for that.  The sidewalk is for innocent travels. Yet this gets
so twisted up everywhere. Maybe there should be a guide.

Doubtless it is true, that they were around them
as they walked. The readers of toast and the eaters of  books. They were
not horrid people, they were just different. Probably they were
innocently different as all the flowers are. As flowers are in a field
which is all wild. Everything is wild. Wild doesn’t mean bad.
You know that and I know that but there are some people who pretend
horribly not to know that. What gives them the horrid idea to pretend?
Maybe they are not horrible people, maybe they only have horrible ideas.
I don’t know. You go and check. I will stay here. These people against
wildness are often the wildest people of all. They are the people
who want so often, so terribly, to bite.

You never know what is behind a wall until you get there, and then,
sometimes then, it’s much too much, much too late not to know. Then it is.
Probably you have learned this by going behind a wall and seeing
for yourself. This happens to everyone.

End of Summer Surprise

I opened that poetry book I recall I had been reading one distant summer day, one now foreign year, by the lake. And a tiny mummy of a ladybug fell out like punctuation, a casualty of outdoor reading, carapace in a carapace.

Dear Little Polka Dots, I’m sorry. I never saw you fly in. I never knew I buried you alive in stanzas. Your little skeleton’s the bookmark of your fate.

Cute as a button,
dead as late.