He leaves a visible space.

Here’s why:

Walking home from work
late one night last fall,
Passing under the highway
named for the queen,
Using the temporary sidewalk
hastily thrown together for me,
Seeing construction workers
scurrying under harsh work lights,
I somehow recognized
the Joy of hard hats and work boots.

How could I possibly recognize
that?
I’ve never constructed a highway in my life!
I’ve never deconstructed a bridge.
I’ve never poured a sidewalk,
not even a single square of sidewalk.

But my brain knows
the adrenalin high of making stuff.
The inside of my brain knows bright work lights.
My brain remembers nighttime employment.
My brain understands the shift from
waiting-all-day
to sudden vigorous activity!

Since I automatically empathize
with the manic energy of concrete construction,
maybe
construction workers
understand my wild poetic energy.

And that’s why I leave recordings of poems
where constructions workers will find them.

I’ll never get used to you
and your changing weather;
sometimes you’re too chilly for me,
but more often you are too warm, too humid,
too close for comfort.
Not that you are unusual;
I recognize that I’m the eccentric one,
the one who strangely embraces stasis.
(Some say my stasis is mere stagnation.)

Let me describe you,
as I’m not entirely sure
that you’re ever seen yourself
in mirrors unwarped by the weather.
You are brown-eyed blue-eyed green-eyed summer-eyed,
with some red-haired autumn-ness somewhere in your genes.
You are pale like winter, freckled with small, dark birds,
yet you smile like a long-awaited springtime rainshower.
Your tattoos are a breakneck slideshow of nature photographs;
your piercings change as rapidly as windblown pine needles.

So, that’s what you look like right now,
if you don’t like it, just wait five minutes.
I’ve taken to listening to the half-hourly forecast
whenever I’m wondering about you;
the radio’s weather reports
correspond directly
to the dramatic physical changes
in your appearance.

As for myself,
I have eyes like double-paned windows.
I have short hair like brown carpet.
I have skin of neutral wallpaper,
beige, no patterns,
and certainly no tattoos.
I smile like television.
My body art consists entirely of small, pink bandages.
I’ve always been like this.

So, excuse me
if I cannot see a future full of picnics for two.
My variety of optimism anticipates life staying stable;
I don’t invite climate change into my interior world.

I would need a change of clothes
if I picnicked with you
in this cold rain.

And it wouldn’t stop there;
you would probably want to
picnic next
in warm sunshine!

Picnicking with you,
out in all weathers,
would require
my body temperature
to rise or
drop
or at least fluctuate
by fractions of a degree.

Where in the world
would I find safety
if not in the constant temperature
my own body?

True, the audience is limited
to a wakeful few:
a jogging insomniac,
a dog owner,
a nightsky nerd.
However, that limited audience, that wide-eyed handful,
cannot help but pay sharp attention.

Pre-dawn, the distractions are so few:
not-so-many sounds-of  things-on-the-road,
fewer sights; vision restricted to moonlight,
the whirling mind stiller sometimes when outside in cooler dark air.
Birdsong at that time is clear and insistent, an earful of pleasure.
More than that, then birdsong does magical work:

The insomniac forgets about attempting sleep,
but decides to meet the dawn at the edge of town.
The dog owner scoops a brown lump off a lawn,
letting her irritation go,
and thinks instead of the lovable puppy the dog once was.
The nightnerd thinks that this star-pocked night
is too fullwonder to amass just for himself;
he thinks of someone he will ask.

All the while,
all
that the birds know
is that singing
before dawn
is better than
singing at midday.

You built this city
on-a lake-of tears.
I built these string bridges from
fears and hopes.

(The only way to be together
is to build, is to create,
but I’ve never made more
than sand castles and tissue paper kites.)

You dig treasures for the world;
I uncover deepness dark.

You travel entouraged;
I live here, loneless.

There will be tons of fascinating things for sale,
because Grant and Robin are fascinating people.
You will want to buy some of the objects they are selling.
For instance, there will be coffee and baked goods for sale.

In my imagination, this will be
much more than an ordinary yard sale.
For instance, stilt-walkers will roam the yard
like giraffes roaming tasty-tree places.
There will be fire-breathers (in my imagination)
breathing fire like human dragons.
There will be cotton candy,
pink and purple-blue,
dripping from the branches
of the yard’s one tree.

In my imagination,
ordinary objects will fly off the tables,
circling you, the customer.
These objects will beg you to purchase them,
promising you things:
“I am a quilt that’s warm like no other.”
“I will be the best sandwich-maker you’ve ever used!”
“I’ll be the best coffee mug ever; I’ll never lose myself.”
No thing wants to be unwanted.

Others take to the
greening grass,
and sit there plucking blades.
They wait for the Spring breeze to leave,
so they can feel warm sunlight on their faces.

Guest Host!

• Rick B, thank you for reading Rob’s poem and for cohosting the eposide! I have unlocked the door; you are now free to go.

Poetry!!

• It is Love by Sarah L
• Checkmate by Sarah L
• Pieces of a Puzzle by Sarah L
• Act I Scene I by Rob the Honourable Box Cutter

Music!!!

• You’re the Big Sky (rock guitar instrumental) by Derek K. Miller
  
  • http://www.penmachine.com/podcast
• Sweeter Than This by Katie Herzig
  
  • http://www.katieherzig.com/
• Both songs found on the Podsafe Music Network
  • http://music.podshow.com/

[Lions, Tigers and Bears Disclaimer]

• Lions, tigers or bears did not appear on this episode because I am not currently able to purchase such creatures. All I have to offer you is poetry. If you wish to donate lions, tigers, bears, or a good-sized circus tent, please email me at shane@yonderman.com.

This episode celebrates Yondercast’s 2nd birthday!

• There are three poems this episode, written by Rob the Honourable Box Cutter, my sister and myself.
• Thanks to Jordan “FunkMaster” for creating the background music.
• Thanks to Christian band 3 In The Same for letting me play “You Give Me Life.”
• Sound effect of siren was DMP002011 RUMBCITY SIRENS.wav by martypinso, found at The Freesound Project.
• Sound effect of light switch was sound-click3.wav by zippi1, found at The Freesound Project.

I should back up my heart
Like I back up my files
I can’t, so I protect it
With ceramic space shuttle tiles

I once lived inside your future
You read about my history’s past
If we agree where to begin
We will see if we will last

You grew up, calm by the river
I grew wild down by the sea
We both have sand between our toes
That’s good enough for me