On Our Best Days

(for Jay)

We are all people just walking around.You cross the street, they hop the curb.Some dude runs down the path.We're making time. Flicking lint. Eating pears. Dialing phones.The cat stands at the door. Wants to run after the bird.We're just walking up stairs and through parking lotsto get our fix.To hang out on the corner and be alone.Some of us watch cars race by with dying brothers.Others rake leaves.We hold ourselves. We warm ourselves.We love our neighbors for having more money than we have.We want to give them some of our time.Some days, there is no time.We walk around confused, and in our polka-dotted shorts.We walk around in our anger and sadnessand can't seem to sit down at the same table and eat the pot roast.It's a beautiful pot roast.We should all eat the pot roast.What else is there but the fork and the spill?Because it does not matter if you believe in flying saucersand she believes in Frida Kahlo.We have to share the sidewalklike we have to share the pathwhen the mountain bikers race down it, too close to our children,who almost get hit by the spinning wheels, fall downand smash their heads against the rocks.Our hearts are so big.You can feel it right now, can't you?The cat feels it.The worm feels it.We're just walking around. Some of us fall onto the concrete.Some of us pick up the person who has fallen.One day it will be us that fallsand there will be a nice folk in yellow chiffonto come and prop us up against the mailbox,brush us off—the blood and dirt—even if it means they get stinking filthy dirtyright before letting us go.