noah

laundering poetry through his guitar
he used each delicate morsel i threw his way
to repair a rung on a ladder
that was crumbling in age.

i thought of him as i thought of my tricycle:
young, for youth, and distant; a patina
that never allowed my fancy
to shine beyond a pixel, or few.

how surprising to find in the winter sunlight
each bound kiss and holding hand
stirred curiousity that until now was only
fleeting technological fun.

his patient ministration, his minstrel-ations
patched hairline crack after splintered rung
until the ladder, more solid than before,
supported his weight.

and when he put down the guitar
and he started to climb, hand over hand,
i teetered at the top, warming in winter,
surprised to realize: i was waiting.