I like everybody else

carry an envelope in

my chest and through

the plastic screen of

the envelope you can

see grass clippings from

my childhood lawn.

My father and I hung

carpet from the walls of

the room in my first

apartment, there's no

reverberation and I keep

a clump of your hair and

other fuzz on the carpet.

It sticks, born of static

or a velcro property

waiting to be rolled

one day with the grass

clippings and smoked on

a beach with people I

feel okay about 

things.