Thursday, March 11, 2010

This is where they met.

Dear Dorothy and Abraham,
Thank you for taking care of me all those years.
I can't thank you enough,
I can't thank you,
Every time I try, you press finger's to lips, and pass the dumplings.
And flip the record.
And tune the Yuke,
And face the something on the red and blue tapestry to pray to something in another language.
That's why I picked Bloomington as my favorite vacation spot.
Because I know that that's where you met,
And fell in love,
And married,
And had a baby,
Right here,
On this soil.
And you still,
Live in a house,
It hasn't crumbled,
It hasn't sunk into the ether of too young,
Or too tired.
I know I know nothing is perfect.
It's epic.
Everyone should go here.
Hall ah french toast and clean sheets.
Girls in skirts with dirty bags.
Dwellings with chimneys.
And napkins with unincorporated butter pads.
Live music and breweries.
NIU was not like this.
NIU was the seventh floor of Michael Reese compared to this.
I should have listened to you.
On all other subjects I had my drinking glass glued to the thatch of the roof.
Next time.
By the way,
My next idea is to be a speech pathologist.
If you approve.
This is a universe.
This is my parents when they were young.
This is the scene in the kitchen.
This is the absence of poetry.

Yours across the courtyard,
Skin and Toast.

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