Gathering my Personal Affections
into my best samsonite, or into the board room
for the required haircut. Misheard or mistaken,
my personal affections look back at me benignly
like a boy reaching for the wrong wrist at the store
looking up with a face that started to say Mommy.
My personal affections roam harmless or hungry,
harried or pointed, sarcastic and sad. They run
in packs some nights, more like bison than cattle,
like large frightened waterbirds on legs jointed
as flowers, I watch for as much as out for them.
(In honor of my students and their wonderfully-strange brains. I see a mummy cake in your future or some eyeball cupcakes.)