The chess set I use as pillow
is spilling through the kitchen bench,
the puppy cruising the floorboards
has pawn blood mixed in his leather toy,
marijuana smoke plumes from the motorcyclist’s beard
outside and the pipe over a Monopoly game
goes round streaming smoke driven
up into the cedars and the fresh morning.

How, you might ask, can I manage
to wait for the woman who will leave me
a valentine unexpectedly, a painted heart on my cheek
that burns hotter than cayenne pepper?

I pass a found stick from one hand
to the other uselessly till it rests at the window
sill decorative as a shell.
I’ll go walking again without it,
find a trail longer than the others,
sleep in among the madrone and oak
when summer holds in rapt attention
each vegetable and each adolescent unpenned beast,
hatch those stones or abandon them
among leaves or rain where they
can always fall apart or be found suitable.