while the cookies bake

when the floor isn't hard anymore,
and when it's difficult to get up
you dance in between my legs

I tell you I don't need any lessons
on how to do these things
I know which toes to paint

and how to hold your head up
just like your mommy did
when you were a little baby

the fan in the window hums
we stomp to the music
then lie on our backs

on the cold hard floor
which isn't cold or hard anymore
and you tell me you won't

eat raw cookie dough
cause you might get salmonella
and I tell you

that's the risk we take sometimes
to enjoy this life
and you drink another glass

and have already forgotten what I said

If I could,

I'd write a letter to you
with my feet that says,

"I wrote this with my feet,
because my hands aren't good enough
for you."

but then again, neither are my feet.


OR

If I could,
I'd write a letter to you
with my feet that says,

"I wrote this with my feet
because my hands are too good
for you."

but then again, so are my feet.

to Rufus

When I listen to you
I taste it--hard,
like dessert on the sidewalk:

bananas foster,
homemade pancakes,
tortilla recipe on tattered paper
in the new grass.

There's your lips,
and your face is soft
like a violin song.

When the dandelion grows
easily through the cracks,

it's a sweet reminder
that there are some things
we can never leave behind.