One day somebody will catch me
below a brick tower
with my right palm and forehead pressed
against cobweb to rectangles of
flaking red, churned purple caught
mid-roil, crisped sienna
turned mirage of tree above water,
char from abandoned fire—
Somebody will glance at the wildflower weeds
bunched in a tiny bouquet in my left palm,
a blade of grass tying them together,
and say to me,
It’s time you got serious about your life.
Love, I’ll reply mid-marvel,
What ever made you think I wasn’t?