A Passionate Pragmatist

 

As a passionate pragmatist,

I think it’s a great idea but

would like to break it down

for a bit, really get in there

and see how everything works

while simultaneously committing to

the whole process.

 

Kissing you is amazing and

deeply satisfying but how

did kissing become the way

we express our passions for

one another instead of just

rubbing one’s head or winking

or something along those weird actions.

 

How do you look at me with

such wonder and amazement

as I drive, as I mindlessly babbling about

the evolution of the city and roads

and how it marked the beginning

of modern human society.

 

What makes you reach out for my

hand as we sit quietly, what makes

you let go when things are noisy.

When do I bother you and why does

it bother you and what can be done

about the things you do that bother me.

Like letting go of my hand, when I’m not ready.

 

I don’t want to jump in the puddle of

love, splash around and get soaked,

I like my dry clothes and dry shoes,

there’s probably traces of oil and muck

in that puddle and neither of us need that

these days. Let’s walk around the puddle,

hand in hand, stay dry and get to the

restaurant that requires reservations even

though it’s never busy.

 

You like to go there though, even if I don’t

see the point of food on a stick, I never

know what to do with the stick after I’ve

eaten, where do all the little wooden sticks

go, is there a big pile in the back, do they wash

them. You laugh at my questions and I laugh

at your laughing and I feel the years between

us in my heart, the trust, the comfortable everydayness.

 

I always want to scoop you up

in my arms and kiss you in the

lobby of some great train terminal

while the onlookers smile and clap

because they know the importance of such

displays. But your bags are missing, and

we have to catch a taxi to get to your

mother’s before your brother gets there

and gets the good room.

 

You’re the disorder of my order,

the variable unaccounted for in

the step by step plans so carefully

laid out to avoid the stress sweat and

uncomfortable butterflies of anxiety

who are always on the verge of throwing-

up inside my stomach.

 

To hold you is grand, to be peaceful

with you is marvelous, no spontaneous

madness, only planned spontaneity, is

on our menu. And you laugh at me,

again, as I struggle to just have a good

time with your weird friends who seem

to go sky-diving and spear fishing and

shook hands with the Dali Lama.

 

They hop on planes for Bali at a moments

notice while I need three months of

meticulous planning, which you then fix

because I ran out of patience with the travel

agent because what they kept telling me wasn’t

making sense. I’m not flying to Denver to

go to Mexico, that’s lunacy. I’m not going North

to go south.

 

One thing at a time, one step at a time,

one problem solved before the next,

a pattern of solutions in a circle to end

where we began, but always the better for

it. If you’re comfortable with that, then all

my questions and issues, but especially my

passion, are all yours, without debilitating debate.