You say, okay. I know things are not right. But I still know, too, that what you are doing is real. You're ready to take me on your back, though you shouldn't, though you won't need to this time. You sort of already have. I drive up and down the pretty, suburban streets. How could you already live in a place like this? How could you already seem to understand my pain? It's as if you already knew. I didn't have to wait very long.
Soon I am beneath the exotic trees in an exotic country crossing a glass walkway into a modern house made for the kind of folks who put you on your bottom next to the municipal dumpster when it suits them and I come up to the door anyway and I know what's on the other side already. You are such a neat person and on this long late afternoon of melancholy and unarticulated longing I find my home at your place. You do not know how important this is to me, and nothing's perfect, but what is so lovely about you is that you give out your hand both when it is not really needed and when that hand is truly important. You don't discriminate.
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