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how do you write a
poem for a soulmate
on their birthday,
especially when you
know that the use of the
words soul and mate,
will make him so angry
that he will
most likely not read
passed the first stanza?

how do you curate
the memories and the lessons,
accentuate the impact?

too much to share
makes starting impossible:

the time he painted
his station wagon
red, with a brush
and house paint,
the white gloves
to prom, on the football field,
the intentional nods
to elegance and style,
ever the fashionista,
the red and white cavalcade
and being too good to pick up trash,
trips to berkley in the volvo,
the first one of us
to move:
to santa barbara
to dc
to new york,
to new orleans,
the photo shows in cafes,
the skateboards down park avenue,
the poems from the ashtray,
insisting that spitting in public is gross,
the childlike exuberance
over that passage in that book
that time after midnight,
that weird weekend in boston
and new haven with the strokes,
the hyper-analysis of
books.
films.
songs.
conversations
and walking different
after becoming people,
the glances in the mirror,
the hair, when it was there, just right,
the band-aid-tan-contest
that summer in san diego,
the power to be alone,
the one wooden spoon,
the bizarre cuisine,
the sharing of heroes
promoting black culture:
ali, dorsett, jackson.
that dusk by the lake
in bellingham, sundays
in central park,
first time to rent,
the conversations
about pedagogy
the perfect editor,
the best writer,
the glitter, the weird, the hats,
andyoudidnotknowthat
and the rooster laugh.

a thirty-year friendship
reduced to a list poem,
where is the depth
the attention to detail?
where is the meaning?

all he has ever done.
is push me to be better,
yet all i can is disappoint
him with this half ass attempt.

i know you'll hate this
and that's why i love you.