If You Close Your Eyes

The windows were open in the cab. We closed our eyes and leaned toward the sun, like we were sunflowers, positioning ourselves to the rays.

"Lookit those palm trees," Bisque pointed from the plane window. Three swayed in the sky.

It was strange to leave Cambridge. Maybe I will never be there again. I was so ready to get back to the hotel and out of my boots I turned around in the T too late to see the snowy El Dorado of college one last time. Only a pile of slushy stairs.

Before 10 PM room checks, Spiff, Bisque, and I cuddled into bed and watched Poltergeist. I hadn't seen it in fifteen years, and it made me feel little. It was nine degrees outside. And then half a day later we're in 80s. Like dogs against car doors.

It is truly hard to be an optimist about this one.

And the walls kept tumbling down
in the city that we love.

Be Real, Banana Peel

Writing this from my lil Marriott couch. As I drift off I've been remembering the last time I was on a hotel pull-out. Also for a speech tournament. But then I was a competitor and now I am a coach.

It was my first Nationals. The city of brotherly love. Only three of us qualified that year. The sophomore Lincoln-Douglas powerhouse. The graduating team captain, oratory queen, worked at Anne Taylor, often seen in business casual around the high school cafeteria.

Our first morning packs of kids in suits fueled diligently at the Embassy Suites breakfast bar. A coach opened a yogurt near Queen and it spit a speck of strawberry onto her lapel. The coach said, "Oh, I am so sorry," and ever-poised Queen smiled and assured it was just just just fine, no no no problems. And then she walked to a table with me and sharked, "Are you kidding me?" re: yogurt speck.

And what is the point of that? That is not graciousness. That is a wolf in graciousness clothing. If you want to portray, why not take it further? Why not be? You can get it if you really want.

Red Envelopes

So many young men have crumpled

backs from the wind,

clomping through Harvard Square holding

paper-wrapped bouquets.

Bisque points to a guy middle-age

outside the taco shop

penning a card.

"Last minute," he says

because his letter to me (the one with the s'more on it--

'I love you s'more every day')

is in his backpack

sealed, ready

for our date.

On Wednesday he left a vase of roses and

Reese's Cups on my kitchen table.

A tiny potted ivy for Ro. A pink flower for Rora.

Over high-end hazelnut cocoa

we hold hands.

We haven't been all day because there are children

to lasso. But they're all off

in the slushy streets. Doing

their own

stuff.

So we hold hands and we exchange red envelopes

(mine for him, two peanuts hugging)

with messages that sound

the same.

Every day is a better day.

The ultimate Valentine.