You can call me a wanderer, I'm not
like the people on TV, true, cagey with the dollars per square foot
grousing over cupboard knobs and closet space
chuckling at those kitchen appliances are so new I might take up cooking
or what's not to love about the double sink and soaking tub! The views!
And at special times making sure that the baby's first Christmas will show on Facebook
or that the anniversary celebrates at a fine restaurant and give each other a rose and then visit the beach you walked on when you courted, and then make love don't ever change.
But before you think me shiftless, which, neither, am I,
just strolling from casino to casino, a cup of quarters, a well drink,
in need of a haircut and the suede jacket in need of a deep dryclean,
chatting up over jello shots the first available Kim at the snack cart
or picking up the tab on her garlic guacamole. A guy with bad habits
low rent and run-ins, neglected kids sequestered with the ex, et cetera,
like health going or gone at 40, and I'm whistling in patent pathos at the cheerleaders mocking back in teen sopranos.
No. None of the above. Try remembering you've seen me, registered in no big way, no ma'am,
as a guy in the Safeway aisle converting the metrics to ounces, sodium overloads, no wonder
you passed by. Or with a book bag. Or reciting to myself. No wonder.
There's lots I've done like that, like kissing and deep-breath exercise, but my mind's
remarkable most in that only I, only this instant, began to love this singular phrase out loud:
'cardamom and cinnamon'. Cardamom and cinnamon. Say after me.