Sunflowers

 
Here are the sunflowers
I intended for your birthday.
Here is the cruise
we planned on taking someday,
and never got around to.
Here comes the next round,
in the game of lines we made up,
now dropped and strewn around the living room floor
that I don’t dare pick up.
Here’s the carousel picture
in Union Station
when we were so young and happy.
Here’s Sunday morning, Chicago on a dime,
when I felt so trusted.
Here’s baby geniuses,
and broken hearts,
and foodlife credit cards.
Here’s to the balcony in Pennsylvania,
we’ll never get back to,
and the room in Downer’s Grove,
that we swore we’d get back to.
Here’s to Vegas, and the other side of the strip,
here’s to Niagara, I hope your trip is safe.
Here’s to friends we never hung out with nearly enough.
Here’s to lighter fluid laced dessert,
and dancing in the dining room.
I miss dancing in the dining room.
I miss dancing in the dining room.
Here’s to Drs. Mahalaha, and Sundaresh,
Jernecik, and Hanicak.
Here’s kidney stones, and labor and delivery,
here’s to hauling cribs on RTA.
Here’s to being young and naive,
to the choking sensation in my throat,
here’s to fighting back tears
all day at the job,
here’s to the kitchen floor at the Grovewood.
Here’s to finally living together,
three years after the fact,
and here’s to the unspoken words
that it’s too late to say.
Here’s to baby Angel,
who never took a breath.
Here’s to "Little Billy,"
which never made much sense.
Here’s to that last vacation
we promised for the fall.
Here’s to that last vacation
we took three years ago.
Here’s to Ryan Overman,
who’s laying nearly dead.
Here’s to Kary Platenak,
who’s also nearly dead.
Here’s the poem I never wrote you,
and the bus we never took.
Here are the sunflowers I promised,
when I just gave you dust.