Day 12: somewhere I have never traveled gladly beyond

I've worked here for thirty years
And so I'm going to find some
Place on campus that I've never
Been with my notepad in hand
To write out what transpires in
My brain if I find such a new
Place

As I set out from my office, I am
Doubtful I will find it, that rare
New thing in a place where I've
Been for so many years so many
Days so many hours, you get the
Picture

I speak to a colleague who is
Obviously having a rough day--
I can see it in the way her eyes
Are squinted, in how her mouth
Shapes words before she says them
I ask her if there might be some
Place I've never seen or been or
Experienced, and she lists off a
Variety of spaces I have been and
Seen and experienced.  "What
About the former geocache?"
She says, sweeping her hand
Over her brow.  "It is by where
The old Admin Building was."
"Where?" I say, slightly excited
For newness.  "Down in that
Sunken patio by the Construciton
Trades."

I had no idea about this geocache
But I have certainly been to that
Patio, but it seems this is it this is
The new. "X marks the spot," she
Continues.  "It was behind two big
Steel beams, but someone took
It."  "Maybe I will find it!" and I
Head east, the great expanse
Of east campus that was so near
The cinderblock old building where
I worked for about twenty five
Of these long years, upstairs in
A hot office with a narrow window
Looking out on gravel and cooing
Pigeons

There are two buildings between here
And there. Booth much the same:
Atlas brick behemouths with few
Doors and fewer windows because
Windows were anathema to learning
In the seventies and eighties, it seems
Both surrounded by grass, one with
Grass and trees.  We don't need trees
I can hear the planner for the other
Even more sterile building say.  But
That's not quite true, because there are
Trees on the other side where the
Former geocache no longer resides
Honey locust that bloom green but
With wafting perfume in early June
As I round the corner to where the
Hidden patio is, I pass a patch of
Green that once was our community
Garden.  It, like the geocache is no
More.

Down the steps, I'm in the sunken
Space.  Office windows on one side
With blinds all shut tight, save one
And its blinds are in tatters across
The window.  The brick is puddled
With the rain we've had off and on
All day, and in the black-earth beds
Huddled up to the just sprouting
Honey locust are tulips, daffodils,
Hyacinths.  I've never noticed the
Flowers before, nor the raspberry
Canes just coming into bloom, nor
The shock of yellow from grape
Holly.

And there is the X, against the far
Wall where the elevated pathway to
The main floor of the building lofts
I suppose it is meant to hold up the
Walkway, to keep the concrete from
Toppling down, but I'm unsure how
It works, as the crossed steel beams
Are against the concrete abutment.
I walk over to it, reaching my hand
Out, and caress the scratchy, rusted
Steel.

I reach behind it, where the geocache--
A plastic bottle secreted behind containing
A roll a paper and a pencil for scribling
One's name--is not, and it is not and
Has not been for a year or two my
Colleague who has obviously been
Having a rough say told me.
Feel down along the empty space,
Thinking it may have slipped
But there is no where to slip.  No place
To hide.

So I step back, moving to the edge of
The space and take it all in.  The place
Is not new, but the daffodils are new
And the tulips are new, and the hyacinths
Are new.  The puddles of rain water are
New, and the just sprouting honey locust
Are new, even they have been here even
Longer than I have, they are new and the
Words are new that I'm unscrambling in my
Head.

Before I leave, I pick a daffodil for my
Colleague who is obviously having a rough
Day and when I get back to my building,
I stick it to her nameplate on her office
Door.

Day 11: The Guy With a Sign on the Corner

My sister was the first person to throw me out.
Mom had died a couple of years before from
Breast Cancer and my dad, well my dad was
Never much use my grandma used to say
And he left us to go back east for work when
I just turned two. We never heard of him again.
My mom tried to find him once, but the trail
Went cold in Wyoming. We figured he might
Have died. There was a lot of oil riggers in
Rock Springs in the 70s and you know how
Riggers are. She got one check from there
And then nothing. Zip.  Nada. So yeah,
Who knows.

Mom had a lot of different jobs and a few
Different boyfriends, but my home town is
Pretty small and everybody knows everybody
Else, you know what I mean, and it was hard
For her to get by or get men or whatever you
Know how it is, right?  But we got by ok but
Not rich or nothing, but not so poor I was
Starving.  It was just not easy because every
Body looked down on us and they all thought
Dad ran of and left my mom and of course it
Was probably her fault, you know how little
Towns are.

So, anyway, my sister was the first person to
Throw me out, like I said.  Mom was dead and
I was fourteen and got into partying, you know
And my sister said "you cut that shit out or
get out of my house."  Yeah right, like it was
Her house.  Just as much my house as hers
But of course she was 19 and legally, legally
It was her house, I guess.  I don't know I
Should go back and find out, but fuck that
Shit.  I'm never going back to that piece of
Crap town.  Well maybe I might when my
Sister kicks the bucket, but fuck, you know
Fuck it.

So when my sister threw me out I just headed
North to Salt Lake.  I didn't know fucking any
One, but whatever.  It was a hell of a lot better
Than down there.  Hell of a lot better.  I met
A bunch of other kids, we used to hang out
At Crossroads.  Remember Crossroads?  Shit.
We used to hang out there and they'd play like
Classical music to drive us kids away. Hilarious.
Some kids used to sell drugs and score tricks,
But I never did that shit, never. Well I did drugs,
Yeah, but never sold, and I'm not a whore but
I just shoplifted and stole shit. Well there was
That one time, but nah, I don't want to talk
About that.

So yeah, I've been doing this for fucking near
Forty freaking years now. Not constant, mind you,
Sometimes I get jobs. Sometimes I make enough
To get a place with a couple of other people
Or we just go squat.  I like working jobs though,
But jobs don't always like me, if you know what
I mean.  I mean, I do ok out here. There are enough
Folks who will still drop change and I sometimes
Get a fiver. Hey listen, I got to get back over to
My buddy's place.  He needs me to do something
For him, you know what I mean, so see you
Around?

Day 10: Ghazal of Snow in April

Until you see the plum trees drooping pink
You can not believe it would snow in
April

Or until you hear the crack of a branch breaking
You will not believe it could snow in
April

But certainly, when the pink petals mix with white flakes
You suddenly believe that it should snow in
April

The petals and the flakes settle over the fallen branch
You believe you should not see such good snow in
April

So you stand before another tree, waiting and watching
You wish the tree harm, but it withstood snow in
April

The tree is unharmed, but you suddenly find that
You have a mean spirit that misunderstood snow in
April

Day 9: tooth, tree, went, ichor, cork, trample

What they called a tree stood alone among the sage and rabbit bush

Saddled between two cliff faces, like a single, jagged tooth in a

Derelict's smile. A pair of ravens went too and fro between the cliff

Tops and the rounded, cloudy top of the cedar. Below, the local 

Heard of cows would trample the sage and rabbit bush, blooming

Amber yellow against the cork-white soil.  Where the cows have licked
The peeling bark for its salt, a fetid ichor flows dark red, down the
Trunk. 

What they called a 

Tree, scale leaves 
Tipped with immature
 Cones puffed green against

The sky

Day 8: The Pen

I hold the pen in my hand like you would hold a knife

A blank tablet lays on the seat of the chair I stand at

I hear her across the kitchen, clanging a pot from the cupboard

I stab at the tablet, and draw curlicues of what I think

Are letters, but they are not letters and I am frustrated

So I start to cry and throw the pen at the paper, it glances

Off and skids across through the kitchen doorway to her

Feet.

"What's wrong?" she says, bending to pick up the pen 

And I run to her, grabbing her legs, still wailing

In my memory my dialogue with my mother is clear

And concise, but I'm sure I was not as eloquent as 

I think I was, but I ask her when I will be able to write.

"When you go to school," she said patting caressing 

My head.  Then the memory fades into blue winter

Twilight.

Day 7: Salt Lake City

A nice little hike up by Red Butte through
Scrub oak only found here in the Wasatch
You reach a place to rest the locals named
The Living Room because they arranged
The slabs of rock into couches, loungers,
And chairs. You can sit in the Living Room
The city splayed out below for your
Entertainment.

To the west where the lake still licks against
The salty mud flats, a stream of planes
Rise and fall, fall and rise in controlled
Chaos.  Your eye, caught by a glinting flash
Of reflected sun from a car on I-80 follows
The road in to the center of town where
Skyscrapers, toylike, like some miniature
Village, cluster at the bottom of the hill
From the black-copper-domed state capitol
Building


You look in vain to spot your own house,
Squinting at the cluster of buildings that
Should be where it is, but you are unsure and
Uncertain if that really is your tiny dot of
A house.  But it has to be somewhere there
The big roads you can identify easily and
It just has to be right there.  Your interior
Map making is disrupted by the cold nuzzle
Of a dog who wants to be friends by snuffling
Your neck and then snorting. "Rupert!" A
Woman shouts and you stand up quickly,
Petting Rupert on the head.  He is a big,
Rusty setter with a lazy eye.  "It's all right,"
You say petting him again.  "It's all right,
I need to get going anyway."  You smile
And leaving Rupert and his human, you
Descend

Day 6: Work Gloves

My father's gloves were worn in with grease,
Tan pig skin blackened with work on the farm
Their certain smell of fresh cut alfalfa, acrid
With sweat and oil and petroleum distillates
There was a developing hole in the crotch of
Leather between the thumb and the index finger
From grabbing bales by the twine and flinging
Them hard to the cows who waited impatiently
At trough, bellowing and slapping their necks
Against the broad haunches of their sisters to
Gain the best stall, and maybe get a pat on the
Head from my father's gloved hand, blackened
By work

After my father died, all those years ago, I put on
His gloves. They had stiffened with time passed
And the sweet smell of hay had long since faded
But the leather was still black with his work
The developing hole still worn in the webbing
My hands were loose in the shell of his hands
So much smaller, like a child's hands cupped in his
Father's