sluice

sunday again but
the dog counts
i’m no statue
i have to lick up
its yaps, be pulled the
parkway thru city
hall like a kite
downward
to the delaware
for a girl. sewers
gape at all crapjoints
franklin, yaps slashed
thru for water and
air—a bag lady into
a recorder: blue jays
against the rook, tying
knots. i choke up,
nothing american,
something older—
just make contact
keep your eye on
the dog, it isn’t yours
and what is? i muster
south, and passyunk’s
our little parkway,
a diagonal lined
w/ plates of an indian
face every few steps
the kids are getting
tattooed on them.
to be worn and walked
on, native as a board
in a window. to lower
your voice so as
not to come off
as a show off, be
the father father.
here’s what i’ve learned
so far: crossed out,
you cut thru, find
a note in the mail
slot: dear ryan
i have a norman
rockwell painting
you may have it
if you want—it is the one
of the doctor listening
to the heart beat
of a little doll. love,
grandmom
we shall outlive
our minds. love,
the sand in your
heart—the heart’s
a metaphor, remember,
i said to my students
whose lost eyes i fall
thru to apology. love,
the sand in our hands.
i’m sorry little kid
on susquehanna
who taught me to play
chess—i forget your
name and the game
remains to me a SEPTA
that never was, small
dabs of train run thru
us as we stare at one
another, mothers
we’ll need to be
to ourselves.