That news analyst’s toddler who burst open
his door mid-interview–remember how
she marched in like a drum major
as he hurried to finish his report?
I love you like that, love this whole dance we do
where we keep working in spite of all evidence saying
we should stop and shout:
“I can’t believe you’re here!”
A video’s going viral of a fruit bat too old and weak to fly,
so shelter volunteers carry it around as it flaps its wings,
and I just want to say I don’t think you’re the hands or I’m the bat,
I think we’re its hunger and its bowl of fruit.
Remember the blue dress? How it wasn’t blue?
Or those escaped alpacas frolicking on the freeway?
What I liked best about them is how we were naked
when they happened. We missed them.
We didn’t miss anything.
Sometimes I don’t tell you I love you
and instead say things like, “The moon has a new moon this week,”
and I love how you say, “Yeah, I saw that.”
I love how love can be two people looking in different directions
yet they see the exact same thing.
Look at me looking at you as you look at me.
You are my veteran coming home to surprise their children.
Let me be your man skateboarding and drinking
cranberry juice straight from the bottle
while listening to Fleetwood Mac.
Todd Dillard’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous publications, including Sixth Finch, The Adroit Journal, The Florida Review, Hobart, and Barrelhouse. His debut collection of poetry “Ways We Vanish” is available from Okay Donkey Press. He lives outside Philadelphia with his wife, daughter, and newborn son.