Words by Joe

Pinch,
punch,
taking a walk.

Trash in the creek,
an old foot-massager,
and trees that release
cotton snow
you run away from.

A young man sits on a stump
near the bike trail
with some luggage,
beneath a tree
to hide from pregnant clouds.

The rain makes
footsteps slippery
and outside
everything in sight
is wet to the touch.

Downtown is packed with
Mexican revelers,
celebrating the passing of
the swine flu scare
or a holiday or I don’t know what.

I wrap my arm around
your side and chest as you sleep
and think about
the passage of time
and then you draw me close.

May days make
springtime slip
into summer
and outside
everything in sight is
wet to the touch.

Pinch,
punch.