Traveling by bus
on networks of air
we still try to trade the
collectors editions of our youth
Yours range from baseball hats to packaged toys
while I positioned dolls in a row
for show and the shoes got
together for town-hall meetings.
We’re not too far from
childhood now.
Ten going on 40
and any ringing in our ears
is directly caused by
concerts versus age.

I pretend to know strangers.
Reaching my mind into the
past full of slow connections.
Break out the xylophone
the tambourine and give me
your best melody, Linda and Stevie.
We will sail over the river
during flood months,
wish we could be as poignant as Paterson
and as unshakable as Downing Hahn.
Wandering over the grassy knoll,
shaking earthquake and dragon
I am alive and I believe
youth carves us out
scraps of clay and glue,
a little trash and a snail
or two.
Horny toad broaches,
your first album.
Carves us from fears,
near-misses and eyes clanking,
they roll around
in our skulls so restlessly.
You want to be Peter Gabriel
and I want to be Ann Martin.
We don’t know each other yet.
This poem is chock full of 80’s
but baby,
all we need is love.