Peter Schireson

I’ll draw you a map to my place,
but when you arrive, don’t say
too much about the journey or
the mint tea you drank en route.
And let’s not lament the destruction
of earth or bring up the vegan position
on dandruff. Let’s just sit awhile,
our hands not far apart, at rest
among the afternoon’s properties.
We can watch an old movie
with women in hats as big
as braising pans. Then,
when we get to speaking,
I’ll tell you about the sound
of the bugs hitting the windshield
on my drive up the coast.
We’ll scrounge up a couple of cans
and some string, learn to read
each other’s lips, and make out
shapes with our hands.
And when we’ve touched and told
enough, we can cut each other’s hair
and burn each others’ baby pictures.