Too long for a note, more of a thank you short story

by Bob Hicok

I thank, therefore I am. 

For being beautiful in my thoughts and in person,
even with plywood along your walkway so no one can jump
or throw cats at passing cars, thank you, Brooklyn Bridge. 

Thank you gravity for the moon and making my butt sag
until it's almost one cheek bigger and for also
meaning serious, as in the gravity of loss
holds us more tenderly together.

A poem can be anything and I thank the makers of language
for that. A shoe that resembles Descartes. A shoe
with a firecracker in it. A shoe with a foot in it
connected to a face via a neck, torso, and leg,
a face I’ll kiss thirty thousand more times before I die,
that survived zits and antisemitism and the drool
of sleep to be the face my face has gone steady with
through the gales. 

Thank you light, I suppose, most of all. For being
the best friend of the dark. For showing me
where the last Oreo rolled away to. For weighing
billions of tons I’m guessing if gathered and told
by the doctor of light to hop on the scale…