When i meet someone for the first time,
I can't help but wonder:
In fifty years,
will

five-minute poem

mornings at the field house

honey whaleribs stream overhead,
arching whalebone corset stays
flank the peaks of the cedar ceiling
as i swim the backstroke,
filtering water through my arms,
water through my smile.

you woke up that morning knowing you were right
and went around telling stories you believed to be true
but you didn't take the time to understand what it was that he wanted
where his left foot was
and if you had looked down in time
you would have seen that he was already gone
and all you did
was change his ticket.