She dropped me off at the tilted
farm house I shared with friends.
My face’s tight mask stung with sweat.
*
My daughter glued colored beads
onto a large stone and gave it to me.
Her name in masking tape on the bottom.
More than half have fallen off,
leaving opaque circles of glue.
She called it a big jewel.
On my desk.
On this rock
I shall build my church.
*
I could never find that wrecked
apartment where we spent the night
or even that woman’s name.
Did I ever know it, speak it aloud?
Running stop signs, my worst habit.
She was one on a long list I could not
re-create now. Struck by her soft freckles
despite tough talk about her live-in boyfriend
and the woman she was kissing in the bar.
That town had six bars. I remember each
one. Coupons expired. Options limited.
*
I drove out of that small town
in my ancient Plymouth Satellite
with a new pair of tight black shoes,
dress pants, white shirt, purple tie—
given my lack of cash,
I passed on the suit—
to the city to make my fortune
once I ditched my own name
and wrote off everyone I knew.
*
Early sun slants in through
dusty February windows.
My daughter climbs the steps
to the school bus with her dance bag,
her hair in pigtails, her true smile.
Maybe she squints out the window
toward me as the bus turns into the glare.
Rachel. The bus hisses to a stop
at the railroad tracks, jerks open
its folding door. Fresh air, long straight
silent tracks. Nobody getting on.
Nobody getting off.
*
Always have a white shirt
just in case. Here’s the church,
here’s the steeple. Save your beads
even when they fall off.
Save the name on masking tape.
