They care about the mental health of children...

 They care about the mental health of the children

(but not about the health and wellness of the people who care for them everyday)

They care about the mental health of the children

(but not about offering them books that mirror their experiences and reflect their identities)

They care about the mental health of the children

(but not about offering them an education which centers the lived experiences of their ancestors and the realities of our world)

They care about the mental health of the children

(but not about ensuring that they receive life-saving, affirming medical care)

They care about the mental health of the children

(but not about keeping them from being shot in their desks at school)

They care about the mental health of the children

(but not about making sure they aren’t murdered by the police)

They care about the mental health of the children

(but not the ones in other countries, only the ones here)

They care about the mental health of the children

(but only the ones born in this country, not the ones who seek asylum)

They care

(about their power and their politics and control)

They care

(about their money and their status)

But you can be sure that they don’t give a fuck about anyone’s kids

–not even yours (and some not even their own)

…and they sure as hell don’t care about you.

2 of 26: Grandpa

At one end of the snug beige living room,

dim lit and smelling slightly of cigarette smoke and

milk and roses and old spice

and childhood

your cracked brown leather La-Z-Boy chair

still waits, calling for me to come sit one more time

in the spot so well worn that it might just be

warm, even after all these years.

It is home to me,

this room where I escaped

soft places to rest and

strong arms to hide behind.

I go there often these days, eyes closed,

leading me back to then, to all those million tiny moments

when we were all together,

so much less fragile,

so young.

All those nights you sat, a grandchild on each knee,

reclined in your slacks, bushy eyebrows, smirking joyfully

tickling us with your mustache while

Johnny Carson chatted on in the background

or Get Smart, or Dragnet,

or anything, really, it never actually mattered

because the time was ours...

is still ours, and for all few sweet moments when I laid next to you

in those final, quiet days

body weak but spirit strong

I wonder if your mind went to the places mine did,

getting ready for bed, Grandma dressing me in one of your

white undershirts (which my small body swam in)

brother and I climbing in between the blankets,

still petting my hair as I fall

asleep.

1 of 26: The Mechanic

Hands coated and stained with oil and grease of

another day, his weary body bends once more to

peer into the engine of a rusted old Chevrolet.

He begins to work

his magic by cracking his knuckles and stretching his fingers

once or twice, trying to get his aging, broken hands to work like they used to

With grace and precision he wrenches away each

overused nut and bolt,

finding potential in a car

slightly corroded, overworked and mistreated as he was.

His eyes are still bright as he brushes his rough hands across

the shredded canvas top, seeing only the glory of those days

before it fell into such disrepair--

only potential, only beauty.

6 of 52: Bonfire

The deep crackle of dried wood

set alight on a crisp,

apple cider and sweater day--

it is the heartbeat,

chasing you through cornfield mazes,

glimpses of your cold blue eyes

and dark hair stolen through

yellow paper stalks.

We catch each other and fall,

rolling through straw and changing leaves

as we tumble,

fabric in the spinning drum of Autumn.

5 of 52: Sunday Haiku

simple Sunday bright

coffee with cream and sugar

well warmed wooden floors

little cat dozes

sleepy sighs, snuggled nearby

keeping so cozy

wind blows, cars drive by

rhythm of the day begins

outside our window

time trickles slowly

to dishwasher lullabys

and we are at peace.

4 of 52: The Weight

I close my eyes, and I can see it --

the intangible scribble-scrabble

which like the dust enveloping Pig-Pen

floats in my head,

constantly in motion.

There is music behind it, too--

a cacophony of sound bites,

every moment I've tried to forget.

They repeat, and layer, and repeat,

syncopated by my regret.

3 of 52: Mac McGee's

Bright lights stretch down the street and people

push in and out of crowded doorways, shouting

their name to the hostess who turns them away;

booked for hours, simply no room.

Beer flows from the tap and people laugh,

bagpipes playing, reverb bouncing the sound

from ceiling beam to the wooden booth where we sit.

2 of 52: Reunion

From all corners of the country

(north and south, east and west

coast to coast) in cars,

on planes, we travel...

for just one busy weekend

of nostalgic summer leisure, safely ensconced

in small town USA, in high grown trees between

hayfields, in the rural Ohio countryside.

Ice cold beer in hand and plush green grass between our toes

each year one sweet weekend

of laughter, hugs, high fives...

a few days to cement the bonds again

before the season changes,

the leaves fall and the wind blows us a year further

from collegiate simplicity.

Fond memories recalled and new ones created

amongst smiling faces and open arms,

we play catch up and kickball between

lazy swims and afternoon naps--cherishing

the luxury of whispering across the room

to those so familiar outlines when the lights go out.

Reassured that the spark is still there, we lament failures,

losses--we celebrate small victories,

acknowledging dreams become reality and

the history which makes us who we are

with the friends who have become,

inextricably,

family.