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growing a garden of weeds
just because it’s green.
saturday starts watering the porch.
skye blue. sun bright. day wideopen.

he asks her join him for a few errands.
he needs bar supplies in chinatown:
a mixing glass, coupe glasses, a fine citrus strainer.
one for three. they grab ice cream. they don’t argue.

in the car the music’s louder than mom likes,
but it’s just father and daughter.
first born. middle aged man.
nineties rock. each one gets a song.
she keeps up. listen to this trumpet part.
it kills me every time, he points out.
she waves her hands to the beat.

next stop guitar shop:
test out a new amp,
grab some picks and a guitar stand.
next stop the art store:
water color pens, new sketch pad, tiny notebooks.
she asks him why he doesn’t draw more often.
he fumbles with an excuse
and thinks he should draw more.

she asks where it hurts most to get tattooed
he draws her a map. where did she come from this
piece of him, unraveling into her own person?

at home they excavate a box of his
old journals, letters, photos,  
she’s old enough to probe
the pg-thirteen material.

what does she need to know
about who he’s been
to become who
she needs to be?

we are more than who
we are in the present.
he leaves a few journals
on a shelf, hoping the proximity
keeps parts of him alive for her.

growing a garden of weeds
just because it’s green.
water any life you see.
keep the soil moist.