the three of us turn
right. Past the iron fence
wrapped in raspberry, thick
with bee song and morning
glory’s violet, the tree’s jaw
and its opera throat hitting
all the right notes. Past
the in-between,
the alley with its
arched back and vine-covered
belly, full of ivy and other
tender wrappings. Until, yes—
there. The brick house
and its moss steps, its
spires a kingdom to
which I assume myself
an outsider, the chest
on the porch with its copper
buckle iris. A man sits on
his chair, rocks in the shade of
North Carolina’s heat, and lifts
his newsboy cap—a patchwork
of all good things—and says, unpresuming,
Gentlemen. We nod, a synchronization
of my quiet inclusion. Neither
my partner nor friend corrects him,
neither turns to me
in apology, quick to speak
for this old man’s slip,
while my boy heart grows
wild with birth, my spine
straightening into joy, the secret
fabric of my makeup,
exhausted wanting, seen.