June 2 (written as the sun went down)

I danced in my kitchen at quarter past noon
because you were six hours ahead
on the middle of a bridge in Paris and told me to.
You have nothing to go on but my word.
I looked 19 and my hair was wet from a shower.
It was hot today, and it could be my bare feet
scraped the dunes of a desert.
I spun three times and murmured
Hebrew words, "croque monsieur."
Eyes open, I found my toaster and America.

To my far-flung friends I send well wishes,
concentrated thoughts.
Sorry I can't meet you in Jerusalem
or in some charcoal sketch of a Montmartre.

My brother, there, is staring with his one new tooth:
highchair regal, no-drool serious.
Sometimes you have to stay in one place
long enough that the people there
(especially the small ones)
can recognize you.
So I mow the lawn.

One day I'll tuck my brother securely under one arm,
like the Vikings their women or Paris, Helen,
and we'll away.

For now we sit on the porch and turn the day
from vinegar and heat to fingerfuls of icing from the bowl.
Three birds fly from the tree like an omen in an epic.
Tomorrow I'll take him someplace foreign, like the pond.

CDL