True like the sky you can depend on
to always be something. True
like a lily ready to tilt vertical
to horizontal. True like a bare foot
to cold morning ground even
when there’s no place to go.
True like the bounding dog between
wondering what’s for dinner
and the possibility on the counter
gone in a flash. True like cats sleeping
in inconvenient for you places.
True like mice that keep finding
new ways into the house, packrats
that persist enough to eat the wires
under the hood of your tired car.
True like all of us just trying to get by.
True like algebraic formulas, refrigerators
still humming steady after 25 years,
all manner of box springs, bonsai junipers,
boisterous home teams winning homecoming.
True like cabinet hinges, blocks of sun
on the kitchen floor that’s been mopped
or not, and high-jumping squirrels at 3 a.m.
True love is not made of wings and wind,
throttled down by hail. It doesn’t crease
like wrapping paper taped wrong, won’t
fall to pieces like popsicle stick vows.
No, it’s true like chocolate cake, the best
falafels, Caesar salad with true anchovies
while you look into each other’s true eyes
and say again, laughing, let’s do it anyway,
we can always sleep later, catch up
when we’re truly dead.