I want to write a poem

as leathery-gentle, as nicotined,

as hit-me-with-your-best-shot,

as crimson-and-clover, as brass-in-pocket,
as you, friend, lounging on your couch
with your weary feet in my lap.

I want to write about you
small-talking with me

and with Pete who works the register

at Treviño’s Convenience,

all of us wanting to shoo away

that gaggle of St Mary’s teenagers.
I want to write about lottery tickets

where your lucky numbers are scratched off

with the grooved edge of a dime.

I cherish our midnight phone-calls
after friendly misunderstandings,
remember your TV tuned to Nick at Nite,
The Twilight Zone and Car 54.

I notice your calm forthrightness.

Your honesty that does not wound.

Your compassion that does not flinch.

I praise and magnify you

who comforted and helped the old folks
after the early-morning fire
in January's dark and bitter cold.
I sing of a pair of black cashmere gloves

that had belonged to your mom.

I give you glory whose crow’s-footed eyes,

whose face, creased with sixty winters,

speak of the Power Greater Than Myself.

Elbow me from the keyboard
and give me the poem that is you.
I will keep it in a tender place
for all my balladeering days;
I will rehearse its cadences
during white nights of black coffee.

I will love the poem that you’ve

made for me, the poem that is you.