"let all things have their places"
-ben franklin

i'm sitting in the back seat of
my own car
at a gas station in new jersey--
i've been wondering how
many places i am going to have
held in my life time--
they're in my pockets--
annoying stones in the heels of 
my shoes--
what are we but a collection
of our legs carried 
down too many streets named
after trees-- chestnut
& maple & elm--
knobby with contorted trunk
wrists grasping at my ankles--
i pluck off the street signs
& sling them over my back
so more people take the time
to get lost--
there are so many places
i can only hold on my tongue--
there was the pizza place we stopped 
somewhere between here
& virginia-- with a name like Maria's
or Mario's or Georgio's
where we got slices on paper
plates & chewed through
wobbly stools--
it takes an immeasurable 
amount of time to leave a place
& still keep it dormant
inside you-- 
i've never been
good at nostalgia & good bye--
i've become so thin & so wide--
there is still a iteration
of my body who spends each day 
leaning on the railing on the 
top deck of the dinner cruise 
we took out on lake erie as children--
her dress is too tight &
her leg hair is prickly-- she
feels like she's still sinking
& i don't try to take that away
from her-- it's good to remember
being heavy & still--
so you asked me
on those wobbly stools
if we had to go back to our places--
the ones we knew the street addresses to--
& of course i said 'no'
& we ate & we left those
lover's bodies seated on
wobbly stools where they were made--
there is nothing permanent
to a place-- they have long since 
torn down the park pavilion 
where i split 
a twin root beer popsicle with you &
let the syrup drip over my fingers--
the ghosts of the bees drill into
the ground & the floor
becomes angry-- we weren't
meant for so much departure--
so many toes to drop like
bread crumbs-- i don't want to leave
you here but if you wait for me
i'll remember you & we can sit here
again 
in the carcass of a vehicle
drinking diet soda like arsenic--
like melting popsicles
whose spines we used to make
our elbows-- 
this is where we compile
a map of ourselves
with no street names & no 
beliefs other than nostalgia--
yes we all have our places--
until we have more
& more & more
& i fold myself into
the patient crease of a
slice of pizza & you confess
your love to me--
& love lives in places--
in wobbly stool legs &
all the unlived forevers
we promise when we stand still
for too long--