Drive Thru
I need quarters and dolares, no cincos
I need more holiday dinners
I need a mountain laurel, whose big grapey
flower pods dripping like dreadlocks I need
to grasp, but in truth I needed to ask
what it was called, because I don't know
my trees besides ponderosa pines
whose inner bark smells like butterscotch
candies and aspens whose small leaves breezing
together can be mistaken for applause,
and I don't know my dogs either,
so when ya'll start talking rescues and breeds
and Instagrams of snout-faces I take leave.
It's nothing personal. I don't even know
the name for that orchestra's swell, the one
that is killing me, or how to jump gracefully
into your double-dutching. I need not
what I know and know not what I need,
though I know I need to remember all
the things I knew I'd never do, like
idle among the rosebushes in wait
for tacos, and I suppose I know I need
more clang in this beat, tensioned
like the woman's voice at the speaker
algo más? algo más? algo más?
