Little things

 

A couple of weeks back everyone

was chanting ¡Habemus Papam! in the garden,

on chimney tops, on the floor of the plaza smitten

by bird beaks, but not in the libraries of philandering

codeheads and newly circumcised trapeze swingers.

On that special day no one wanted to hear something

like a “freelance boner.” I’m sure you too didn’t throw

an ear for words like papal shit or quantum Christology.

You know, I’d like to brush your hair when things go

ugly, as in when a tsunami hits the seawall and there’s

no one to fix your hair out of fear. I will celebrate

your eyes’ uncalculated blink as it might change

the season from tinder-parched mornings to being 84

and still writing you poems. You know, I’d like

to see you cry, laugh at people off to work, because

you’re edged to clear the skies of jinx and throat-clogged

pretensions. The paddling mallards, oh, I want to count

them out for you and give you my monthly salary

lest I fail to do the maths. I want to carry you