French

There is no pre-existing story; I just like to watch you.

Not in that creepy way, like the dude

with the pink mohawk and black

sideburns. You know, in the food

court with the cold French fries.

It's just when you move, take action,

shake your fist at the sky

no matter how many people

ask or offer to drive you to the mental

hospital down county road.

You always know what to say,

who to kick around, who to piss

off with that cockamamie donkey

laugh.

A mesmerizing challenge to the world

in a cotton bed and stained white sheets that curled.

(The very first line of this poem comes from Mary Samyn's poem, "Cup and String." from her book, My Life In Heaven. I thought to move it a few times to be deeper within the poem, but it just felt right as the opener.)