I walk through a rocky field
	my feet hurt

						what sticks

	is the beauty of the grey clouds
	the green of the bushes and trees

I think about a hundred things
	what clothes to wear
	my upset stomach
	the book on DB2 databases i'm
	supposed to be reading instead
	of writing these whacky songs

						What sticks

	is the minute when i was
	doubting whether i might
	exist at all

My kids squabble and yowl
about who gets what color pencil

						what sticks

	is the fun creative love
	in the pictures they make for me
	their scribbles depictions and dreams

My wife and I negotiate
	childcare, walk down streets
	in our own thoughts, get the car repaired,
	take vacations, read the 
	newspaper

						What sticks

	nights of mutually greedy passion
	other nights when she screams at me
	drives away in the car going
	nowhere


	What sticks
is the joy
	What sticks
is the torture
	What sticks
is the passion
	What sticks
is the wonder
	What sticks
is what, I wonder?
	What sticks
is the drama
	What sticks
are the dreamships
	What sticks
is the softouch
	What sticks
is the sweet taste
and the bitter
the unclean untrimmed toes of weird scenes

Right now! -- the moment I'm writing these words down
		in my tattered black notebook, in the early morning
		in Cuzco --

				this moment will stick, I think --