For Ryan

They walk to the bookstore or coffee shop
in a monsoon; the lightning a web of silver.
Their practiced move is this: shake the umbrella
right next to the doorway, give an impish smile,
order a coffee with cream and sugar,
then sit in the corner like Lou Reed,
that smooth apathy masquerading
as cool. There they get nostalgic
and retell that story about the salty uncle
the one who fell in a well one summer,
and then chased them ‘round and ‘round
the arroyo behind the house
with a big ten-inch red wrench.

In quiet moments they dance this way and that
through the quiet rooms insisting
the gods will punish you by answering
your prayers. Some days
they will not put down that book about
discovering sweet emotions from strangers
at the park. Other days they claim
the toys in the attic are speaking
about burning down the house.

They say they will change.
Go for longer walks and reflect
on their choices about the music they
listen to, or the television they watch.
No more daydreaming about Eve
and her eating the apple before
Adam returned from wherever he was.
Can anyone hide from temptation forever?

Once they arrived with a happy dog
and a bag full of shorts and announced
we should put on our faces, right now, and go
out into the calle and find some lucha or help
all of the people we see crying.

More than once, you have watched them
in the late morning, sitting in that big balloon
of silence, watching the yard. As if a secret
was erupting out of the hard soil.

That is when they feel a desperate need
to explain their final meal. It’s always the same:
a big bowl of menudo with fresh homemade tortillas
de harina. Lots of cebolla and red salsa.
You ask when this would be served?
They said not to worry, or lose any sleep,
they have a large, busted drawer, but it is still full
of good chances and three perfect apologies.