We sat on the bridge again last night.
The fog swallowed my fingers while
the homeless man skimmed gold-rimmed pages.
I sobbed in my father's arms after finishing Brothers K and
wiped my snot on the cement steps.
No one ever chooses to learn to be patient.
When I dream of you we never kiss,
a radio crackles and paintings fall off of museum walls,
my grandma blows bubbles in a thunderstorm.
My roots grow deeper
than any grave I can dig.
Pine-needles get stuck between my toes.
Things will always be muddy.
There will always be sunflowers.
- Rebecca Johnson
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