So Many Things

There are so many things I want to write about right now,
like I want to write about how I finally found the perfect way to hold my hands to give the best applause;
but I keep forgetting to take my rings off so,
enthusiastically,
I'm getting blisters.

I want to write about how,
when I go to a poetry night,
I watch peoples' hands when they're on-stage as they rustle and tremble,
and I wonder if it's palsy or nervousness,
and, if either,
if later they'll ignore it-
kind of like how my father won't get hearing aids;
but more like my brother:
the first time he was behind the wheel with the whole family in the car
and we were on our way to the sail boat for the weekend and,
when we got to the one lane bridge
and found oncoming traffic,
I could have sworn his hands shook the steering wheel,
though he insists the steering wheel shook his hands.

I want to write about the boy on Tuesday nights who sings of love,
and who may just be too young to know that,
when he sings of love,
he creates love,
and I love him... when he sings.

I want to write about the homeless man who brings me orange things because he knows they make me smile
and about how he knows exactly where his children are right now,
but he can't hold them.
And I want to write about how I miss the highways, though I love it here,
and about that road trip I took last year
when I made a simple wish for a rest stop and the chance to look at all these stars
strewn like diamonds across the sky!

And I want to write about how my wish was granted instantly with a point-of-interest: point five miles-
a speech bubble on the road of life bearing a sign which read:
"On July 16th..."
My birthday.
"On July 16th, 1988..."
 The DAY I was born!
"... a lightning-caused wildfire decimated fifteen thousand acres of privately and publicly owned lands
here.
Imagine that!
My wish granted
by a wildfire
which raged its first hot breaths even a I sucked in the firsts of my own,
a coincidence so spectacular,
I'm still trying to get my breath back.

I especially want to wrote about how I called my mother the next day, to tell her she gave birth to a wildfire, and her only response was "I know."

I want to write about... how my lack of writing these days is due,
not to my lack of thugs to write about,
 but more due to my lack of things to write on.
There is a shortage of paper in my world,
and I've found my poems won't fit on post-its.
So late the other night,
before I made my bed,
I rummaged through my glove compartment and found,
tattered and abandoned,
this receipt.
Having lain untouched for ten thousand miles,
 its frayed edges bear the promise of catharsis;
but then,
there are just so many things I want to write about right now...