My First Go

It’s so nice to hear the old humanists. Pioneers of the soul, Their branches probe unconscious experience Where truth lies waiting like that rhubarb pie. I can’t seem to get along without thinking That the nooks of our existence do get dirty, Grime you wash down with Windex and long walks Is actually the stuff of us that makes us alive. I met a boy in late August, when everything was rushed. Time was there only for everyone else, And we held not only hands, But vibrant potential as well. Over time- which eventually caught up to us- I cleaned out some of his nooks, Which is the journey that teaches me So much about myself. And I’m grateful for that. I like to imagine that not only Do I receive food from his soul kitchen, But that somehow the threads of my life Can help him weave together his. But it’s not as easy as all that. This isn’t the drive-up window at McDonald’s. We end up scavenging through each other For any edibles we each know how to digest. My muses don’t quite speak his code language. The algorithms he follows are cold to me; Where are his humanists? My brow is just so furrowed sometimes. He strives for such a clean truth. I think that’s just silly. Sometimes the storms erupt And it seems nobler to give up and get out. I head home at night feeling like The stars I know didn’t follow me to this place. He satisfies, yet invalidates, me; I realize I must learn to be a better weaver. See, trying to construct my ideal whole was an empty experience. Now I get to construct my actual whole, With a second pair of hands that shows me Pieces of myself I chose to ignore. Working my way closer to him, Closing the gap, I can hear The old guys advising me politely To keep probing. And it seems we break each other down, More out of habit than necessity; Because we can cook soul food instead. The rhubarb is ripe and there are hands to hold.