What will we say to each other when
I've told you all my stories?

I have recently developed the
completely rational  
fear of running out of stories
to tell-- yesterday
when I peeled open 
my notebook like a clementine--
picked citrus from 
under my nails--
I found
every page was a joker--
you don't play black jack 
with jokers-- and I'd 
lost my queen of hearts
to the card counter
who also waters the 
roses I walk past skeptically
when it's still morning
to me but everyone else
thinks that the sunset means
dusk. I think it's all just 
always been a sunrise
even in the hollow
bird bones of the new moon--
and where those jokers are
is where I had written
about us yesterday-- I had
called you "you" like
I always do because when I
say "You" I really mean 
"You with the broken flipflop"
or
"You with the hair in a 
tight bun that looks like
a chestnut"
or
"You who I was in love
with in sixth grade"
and 
"You who I will meet someday
in line waiting for
a strawberry sundae
that smells vaguely like
clementine peels."
You see I feel citrus 
in your collar when you
kiss me and I wonder who else
you have loved-- and I'm
not jealous-- I'm just
finding there are maps
I'll never read about
you-- there are foot
steps that not even your
mother remembers in the infinite 
driveways of our
crackled tangerine skin sideroads.
Park here over night and
sleep in the car as if
it's a hotel room
and I'll tell you stories
about the makers of 
billboards  advertising God.
We can use the jokers 
as coasters for our
empty coffee mugs--
fill them with black coffee
and Splenda packets. 
If I run out of things
to say I can always pretend
my deck of cards is a 
prayer book-- just need
to make stories faster than I
can write them down
in the form of orange peels
out my car window--
You don't need to pretend 
like they're all good.
And if you've heard me tell
the story before
pretend like it's new for me.