Dear Diary, 
If we were talking as if there was a table between us,
linen-dressed for dinner at a diner opened only for cocktail hour…
opened at an odd time, let’s say the fourth Saturday of
an odd year, during the months of …
Hampton whites…
skewered chicken meatballs with fat mozzarella…a reduced balsamic…
an endless supply of quartered citrus…this is how
I would ask you…to hand me…a breath mint…
and check my teeth for spinach:

To heal from this life…
water for consumption,
strong bones,
wishes, beggars, and a horse wanting a ride
freshly minted sarcasm, tied to aged parchment rolled by
tidal waves of merriment and wisteria blossoms

To concede with grace…
prepare your courage
for 
dreams deferred and what may come
applaud your opponent’s victory lap
choose whether you have the right to command the
motivation, dedication, inspiration required to 
lace up a pair of your favorite sneakers and
show the pavement your stride
once a decent greenspace is found.
That’s all. 
Turning parks into playstations. 
Nothin’ to it. 

To honor wisdom from a blind man…
cherish the fruit he offers to share,
reserve its manna for barren times
do not nail down a roof until foundation supports frame, and will
survive the harshest season with or
without the seasonally decorated
porch duck, grapevine tree, or door wreath…
Everyone needs to eat. 

Hope you are left nostalgic and laughing the next time you read this poem.
Your Friend, 
Me