a stuffed turkey

a stuffed turkey

Two kids, one plate, 

and one of us

had to eat the scrambled eggs,

after a day of playing LEGO’s

we’d run around that backyard

by the lake

and 

it only takes one drink 

to remember a time 

of shaking legs

and knocking knees—was that 

you or me?

How old were we 

that one time 

we agreed

that we could each

sneak a peek

at one present 

under the Christmas tree?

Goddamn, 

life’s kinda funny,

I’ve spent so much energy 

zooming my lens out,

that when I stop 

and focus back in

I realize that all I have

are the memories;

like the other day

at Thanksgiving,

pie 

and bourbon 

and an empty seat

brought out a thought 

of that poem 

you wrote for me.

Yosemite,

Springtime 

and change 

on my mind,

you drove in from the Bay

and when I saw your face 

it looked like it had 

something more to say. 

A Giants hat 

behind the bar,

and as he explained his time in LA 

and how he had come back 

to that small town 

that if you took away 

the mountains, sequoias, and the zip code,

reminded me of our own;

he had hope 

and a plan 

to pull himself out 

of the situation he had made. 

In verse,

you called me out,

reminding me 

that life contained

more than one possibility,

but up shit’s creek 

it was kinda hard to see;

how’s your view now?

The last time we spoke,

you spoke of selling out,

but I know now

that’s not the way it has to be;

I’ll end mine with a question too,

“When you sit down tonight,

what comes to mind?”