Ode To Bridger North and the Heart of Indiana

dance until your feet turn blue, like suede

from the love of all of this

from the visage of palm trees and all of them,

them who knew us for the earliest version of ourselves

you, me, myself, ourselves, and I,

and you

in here in my chest, maybe you could shift this disposition

after all, you believed in the meaning of a cloudy sky,

just like me

watch me cry and hold my hand tight, very tight,

until you could count the creases in my palm

and tell me that my age was only a number

and somehow, somewhere,

we could still push each other on two wheelers,

in our matching raincoats,

and we could still climb the stones on the right side of the maroon house

we could count up to five dollars

and count ourselves the king and queen

and the masters of the hug o wars

and all the while,

we would know old age, very old age,

here---

in the ticking minutes of our youth