Off

I wish holding the baby had been enough, 

or the great conversation with Kate, 

who is so smart and so not-eighteen, 

though she is eighteen, completely. 

I wish making the two quiches would have 

been enough, too.  The bacon

and all of that cheese surely should 

have been enough.  Or the breeze, 

even though it was once attached 

to tornados.  That should have done it. 

And Sheridan dancing and sliding 

in the middle of my kitchen. 

Even the way Adrian made me laugh.

The songs!  The poetry play songs 

zipped through the internet to me.

The good notes, the too-high notes, 

the too-low notes and the whistling.

They should've done the trick.

Even this rain I now hear whipping 

up the trees, finally pouring down 

on us after a stretch of torrid days. 

But nothing has flipped the itchy switch, 

nothing has settled the leeward sway.  

I am longing for my kilter, my footing,

my plumb.  My nails aren’t growing

fast enough for my chew.  At night,

I dream of running, then jumping

off lighthouses into rough water.