From the Fishouse

It is much higher at high noon, and I have to stand on my tiptoes to touch it with the tips of my straining
fingers. In Chinatown, firecrackers jumping in sunlight like glinting pistols tell me it is time for old ghosts
to rest. The boy version of me once said he would ride a carabao cross country because only I know where
to place the “h” in him. I am still waiting for his poem to tell me he is on his way, closer to the Pacific’s
salty embracing roar. I will allow myself a moment of susceptivity and remember a time when I collected
pretty rocks and felt them clicking against one another in my pockets as I skipped barefoot into the
ocean’s froth like soda fountain root beer floats. Today I sit with knees together, swinging my legs to and
fro. Today I’ll hum a little song, and maybe I’ll be out of tune.