Always Searching . . .

Who Are We?

I wrote a poem, I said,

and a story, too.

He rose up.

I am a mechanic.

What do I have to do

with poems and stories?

I am a mechanic.

What does that mean?

Is that what he thinks?

What do I say?

How do I tell him?

I woke him that night

You are not just a mechanic

I said.

You are lover planner politician

You are listener cat-holder dog-man.

You are the body I love to touch,

the one I want to sleep with,

who I love to wake up to.

Is that enough

for this silent man

who argues over

government and windmills

and taxes and corruption

and guns and cabins?

And I am the one with words

who cannot find the right ones

for him.

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