Cantilever

I.

You were sitting in the coffee shop,

Reading Ulysses.

When I noticed

Sunlight –
Towards the bottom of your skirt
Caught in a knot.

It followed you around, wherever you walked,

But waited outside the door,
When you had gone to the bathroom.

II.

You woke me up from sleep, asking –

Tom, How old is the sky?

I avoided an answer, feeling

Words slipping down my throat.

I thought of God, then,
Oddly,
Not sure why.

III.

You were standing in front of me
At the parade. Your body –
A sculpted pear.

I asked,
What to you is
The greatest American value?

You said,

Duty. The sense of duty.
Or perhaps you can call it allegiance.

And that was all there was to it;

The night sky turning golden from
Flecks of burning sulfur, sizzling
Then disappearing like shooting stars.