Coffee-soaked
and exhausted,
my mother walks over to us.
She looks at my eyes.
I need you to stay with Lisa tonight
at her house.
She smiles at Lisa.
Your mom is back.
But I see she’s nervous.
She doesn’t like
leaving us at Lisa’s house.
She unfolds sections
of her plans like a map,
points to ideas,
unexplored reasons:
busy meetings,
business dealings, unexpected
turns of events.
She calls it adventure,
like she’s trying to be brave
for all the business she has to do.
Last night fades into
in-between places.
We pack our stuff for the drive
back to the world.
Lisa is in the back seat,
not feeling good.
I want to tell her
how much fun
I had the night before.
I want to talk
about how much closer
I feel to her now,
how glad I am that she’s my friend.
I want to ask
if she will float with me
over the Pacific
in champagne bubbles,
but she’s curled up into
a morning glory,
petals folded
over her head,
silent as we wind our way
down Throckmorton Avenue.