Misha’s off to work in a shirt that’s too big
on him but he loves its colors. I bake the bread
when he leaves, mist it and cover it, cooling.
On my bike around town my clothes don’t
get caught in the pedals. At the café I edit
my poem, the one that’s now eight pages,
I drink my favorite coffee. The man to my left
says to his friend, “We’re here to share stories
and energy.” His beard is braided. I ride my bike
to the store, I see Christina who makes earrings
out of old records, John from Self-Heal, and Jeff
from the fruit stand is my cashier. I treat myself
to sushi at the high chair that overlooks the street
and see the Suzie’s truck roll past, the one I rode in
yesterday. I’ve lived here three years and the food
I eat is delicious and so much of it I’ve planted
with my own short thumbs. I’ve lived here three
years and I get across town on my feet, I’ve made
human mistakes and baked foods in summer, heat
overtaking the kitchen, the kitchen that leads
to the porch where tools are hung or lean, the porch
that steps out to the yard where we grilled and drank
and read our books, the yard we bought a table
and umbrella for, the yard where poems woke
the neighborhood, where sunburns sang and worms
were fed on foodscraps. Friends visited and friends
stopped by and friends brought food and friends
bought books or art and used up all the toilet
paper. We met them and we said come in and now
the nights are warm enough to let us go out
into them, the nights we hope will lead us
heavenward into a land we’ll plant ourselves.
panache, perhaps 