Before The Paint Dries

When I first met you, we leaned
against each other for practice,
not because we knew of any future
escape from the cigarette desert,
of draped passions in the boss’s chair,
all candle-incandescent, our faces
bright as beadwork on a prayer shawl.
We were like building blocks propped
against the side of the cage,
freeing ourselves to roam
the sidewalks with that
certain greedy, rebel grin.

It’ll be about cities
before we’re done. We get that.
We’re little more than wire loops
in an alley, fallen from cartons
in the dumpster, weathering.
The elements of faith.

Clouds pass, and a deep rain.
We’re not in arrears on
these spirit dreams anymore.
We use the bright blue, the greens
rubbed on with fingertips, a trace
of feline gold, two old lovers,
before the paint dries, hurrying
to get the memories right.

*

P M F Johnson has placed poetry with Blue Unicorn, The Evansville Review, The Main Street Rag, Measure, Nimrod International Journal, The North American Review, Poetry East, The Threepenny Review, and many others. He has won The Brady Senryu Award from The Haiku Society of America, been a Finalist in The Atlanta Review Poetry Contest, and been shortlisted for a Touchstone Award. He lives in Minnesota with his wife, the writer Sandra Rector.