WHAT DID I DO WHILE WAITING FOR YOU?

What did I do while waiting for you? I
brushed my teeth. Then flossed. Twice. Then noticed a
smudge on the bathroom mirror, wiped it. The
doorbell did not ring, and I did not die
a time or two. I didn't think of you
too inappropriately. Or not too too
inappropriately. Of course I lie.
I checked the clock, and then I wondered why
I cared about the clock, you'll get here when
you get here. I decided not to try
so hard, then changed my mind, and once again
I checked the clock and it was fast. Phew! Then
the bell. I did not swoon, but might have swirled
when you walked in, no not just you, the world.

WRITING, OR, DROPPING A LINE 

The fish caught on the line is wriggling way too much—so many almost want to take a club—
no no—the poor poor fish, it writhes in some hell-holy inspiration,
its heart so pierced—But can't it be thrown back?—
him be thrown back? For I say the fish is not
a fish, and is not really caught, but stays belligerent
mid-air and miserable—neither in the pond nor on land
but not committing, quite, to reach the sky—O Fish, 

I hear you talking now—with words and focus
and scribbling noises. And your fins have grown—
why, fingers! Miracle of miracles. The fish has inked
a novel and it's fabulous. And now
the fingers from the fish have turned to wings. 

And who was once our fish, caught and wild,
has flown someplace immortal, past the clouds.

CODE

It really does exist, the one bar code
which would, were you to swipe it, give you me.
Swipe wrong, and you might get a frog or toad,
of course, if not a horse or chimpanzee. 

How many digits, though, or lines, or bars,
do you think it must have? Two dozen? three?
as many as the sky at night has stars?
or even closer to infinity? 

Or in between, like maps of DNA?
Would my map give you soul as well as fact,
though, if you held it in your hands today?
And would you know how I should feel or act
were I to sneak a peek and chance to see
you reading these bar lines of poetry?