Scaffold of Love

I cough, I stand I up straight, I rearrange the dollars of my billfold,
ones on the   outside,
fives,
tens,
twenties,
etc,
in ascending order
on the inside
as though
in line
to kiss the creases in my palm
and hide from pocket lint
and loose coins as well.

Nothing
says fuck me
better
than a man
with hair that is
recently trimmed
and grown
to the vaguely precise extent
of being combed
with sweeps of the wrist
so that it lays
on the head
with an arrangement that
is both recklessness and controlled fury,
my hair says
go to hell
and
hey
where ya goin
lets get a beer.

My clothes are smart, black jacket,
an earth toned shirt,
black jeans that
are just a rumor of sag,
but my face
continues to perfect
it's a impression of
a well used map,
folded and refolded
until original intent
and travel plans
and career moves and turns and twists
are unrecognizable and
my glasses
are the only landmark   remaining
of this once lush terrain,
gravity and history
become chained
by the same metaphor
and leave me
with a mature wardrobe
and a face to match,
jeeze my knees,
could you repeat that last part,
i'll meet you after I  renew my bus pass,

I'll meet all of you
at the coffee house
or the meeting hall,
I will find all of you,
I will follow the sound
of bones
as they creak
as they stand upright
supporting
a host  of nice clothes
and attitudes reinforced
with a scaffold of love
that has always been there,
bracing us as we crawled, walked, ran, stumbled,
and learned how to walk over again
and again
and yet
again.