Pittsburgh, 2010

When I sat down at your table at Thanksgiving,

you served me a scratcher on a plate of fine china.

I hadn’t been to a Thanksgiving in years—my mother

gave up on it after my father passed—so I came in

dressed in my nicest sweater, with a casserole of

macaroni, cheese & green chilies & you pinched my cheek

& said honey, we told you not to bring anything.

I joined you outside for a smoke, even though I don’t

& remarked on the red & gold leaves & how

we don’t really have autumn where I’m from.

You said, wiping the ash off your Polamalu jersey,

that’s sad as hell. I cleared my plate, you filled it up.

You don’t miss turkey & dressing until you don’t have it.

I didn’t want to overstay my welcome, but you said stay

& poured me an Old Crow & we watched football

until the crisp air turned unbearable. I’m not from around here,

so I find snow novel, the chlorine salt exquisite.

This was my lucky day: I won five dollars from the lottery ticket

& offered it to you, yes, because it felt like the right thing to do,

but also because I didn’t tell you the chilies in the mac

could be hot depending on the season & it burned

your pappy’s mouth, but you waved me off. You put your big hands

on my shoulders, squeezed them & said I needed it more

& I wondered then, as I do now, how did you know

what I needed before I did?

Sapporo, 2023

Yes, I am a long way from home.

            Tonight, a man will hand me a roman candle

& I will wonder why all my favorite memories

            involve fire & explosions.

Tomorrow, I will break my foot

            at the base of a steaming volcano.

Later, I will drink beer at the Autumn Festival

            in the middle of the day.

The anecdote we will share for years to come,

            until we return in middle age:

here, you are trusted with glassware outside—

            until you can’t be.

A few days later, we’ll watch the radio tower

            from our room, my foot in the ice,

It will never heal right.

            Something about blood not reaching the fracture.

It will tense up

            on cold, damp nights.

A doctor will tell me: this break happens all the time.

            That all comes later.

After the ball game.

            After we visit the brewery.

After we take the long way home

            on the bullet train.

Well before I knew

            this was the end of my youth.