Perfect Hero

the cogs are tuning
my vibration to yours
with a fork for all the
blooming cornfields
stalked by cooing coyotes
who don't smell the difference
between alive and dead
the citation embedded
in dreams defers to
yours instead
and I blame myself

what I'm getting at really
when it all comes down to it
the thing I am trying to say is

I'm not educated, just savvy
I'm not the messiah, just charming
I'm just as much of a nobody
to society in general
as most of you are
and yet, I'm

the perfect hero in my own little world

-

I tuck her postcard in
the front of my notebook
like a trophy, a simple
reminder, just someone who
took enough time from her
day - yes, a woman - to
squash atoms of ink into paper
which travels a fathom through
the ocean to shore - grows in soil
and becomes the pores of trees
breathing in perfect harmony
so far - with us - yes -
a woman who sleeps
naked in my bed, slept
once, she is the nameless
ghost sitting cross legged
in the bathtub down the hall
her signature slips below the
poems she has inscribed - yes -
all language is poetry if delivered right,
most notably when we speak to
one another - yes - all of us,
because, there is no postcard
in the mailbox, there is no woman
in my bed, in my bathtub,
there is no tree or ocean or trophy,
there is only this moment,
just you and I