my body pressed against the planked floor,

lost in wood and paint,

I feel my hair with tired hands

and find my heartbeat in the center

of my skull.

There    is            no            other    sound.

I taste all of last night.

Lisa sits cross-legged

on the bench outside,

her hair a circlet

of gold straw.

She stares

into her phone.

My mother in the far corner

of the garden, coffee

steaming into the sky.

I am hungry.

I want a bagel with lox and cream cheese.

I want pancakes, French toast.

I want to dip my oranges in a pool of syrup.

I want bacon and eggs and a huge

plate of hash browns.

I slip Mysterious World

under my arm,

walk through the garden

in my socks, each step, dust,

each breath a question.

I want to ask Lisa

about the night before,

but when I sit down,

I’m too nervous,

and the questions all float away,

so instead I find other words.

You know, people always think

yeti and Bigfoot are the same.

But for once, I don’t really

want to talk about this.

I wish I could find

the right words to say.

Closing the Gallery

Coffee-soaked

and exhausted,

my mother walks over to us.

She looks at my eyes.

I need you to stay with Lisa tonight

at her house.

She smiles at Lisa.

Your mom is back.

But I see she’s nervous.

She doesn’t like

leaving us at Lisa’s house.

She unfolds sections

of her plans like a map,

points to ideas,

unexplored reasons:

busy meetings,

business dealings, unexpected

turns of events.

She calls it adventure,

like she’s trying to be brave

for all the business she has to do.

Last night fades into

in-between places.

We pack our stuff for the drive

back to the world.

Lisa is in the back seat,

not feeling good.

I want to tell her

how much fun

I had the night before.

I want to talk

about how much closer

I feel to her now,

how glad I am that she’s my friend.

I want to ask

if she will float with me

over the Pacific

in champagne bubbles,

but she’s curled up into

a morning glory,

petals folded

over her head,

silent as we wind our way

down Throckmorton Avenue.

Lisa’s House

My mother coughs and smiles.

Okay, she says, I should be back

FIRST thing in the morning.

She reminds me to be polite,

to call if I need anything.

She hands me six five-dollar bills.

She makes me say her number out loud to her.

At times like this, she says,

I wish you did have your own phone.

I shrug.

The long stairs to Lisa’s house

wind in mossy disarray,

slate and stepping-stones

threaded through a leafy garden

between three old redwoods.

Swings creak on ancient branches,

and flowers reach into spots of sunlight.

Lisa’s mom steps out from the front door.