Blueprint

Some friends call mine a spiritual problem
and when they do
I become the minister of the real
and go on Zillow
moving my future into various crannies of Los Angeles.
When one friend calls returning home
more practical,
I find myself in our yard
under a colander of stars, tasting
pasta I might never make again
the way he likes it, naked
with flake-salt and oil. I am the moon
for him only rarely. But when I am
I am the one who changes.