For MK: directing

If I had told you a year ago you would be                                       pressing flesh

with pals and patrons

in every concrete stand-alone            in this cowpie town,
would you believe me that
it would be like river-wading,             like stirring plaster in a round and dry bin?
that yesterday’s staples in the drywall would pop out today.        That today’s would
fly across the room tomorrow.          That rain would be sleet, snow would be sliding
as your whimsy drips down your face,      
down your chest and                                                                onto the floor of your office
into a saucer made from paper,                            left overnight to lose its shape. 
In the morning, you peel
it from the floor, dodging office calls and cursing at your rolling chair
as your head hits the bottom of your desk.

If I had told you this a year ago, you still would have looked at me with that distant smile, knowing that the air from time to time would be sweet because you keep the beat, you keep jingling your keys.  You keep the coffee going.  You brighten the eyes of our people.