Dodging sprinklers that green grass,
I cross the street, scanning for traffic.
Half a block down, a cat-sized mound
dots the center line. Two crows argue
above in the trees. Cars zip
between me and the mound,
which ruffles black in tires’ breeze–
One car, two pass. Contemplation
from the ground and above.
Not cat nor crow, but a wig
animated in abandon. We nod,
continue with our ways.
Words swirl like bourbon in a glass,
an arcing splatter that dribbles away.
Plans made of smoke
In the kitchen, I make a grocery list.
Windows flung open,
cats bake in the sun outside.
The air around me hums.
Cats run in,
bones in my head vibrate
in circles.
A hummingbird is in the house.
Whirring overhead, beak clicking
into glass, whirring, clicking.
Crouching
I crawl to the door, open it
hoping.
Zipping out, it perches atop the maple next door.
Conversation swirls around the bloodmobile,
an iodine swab cleans my arm.
Phlebotomists discuss lunch
over my head as my blood drips
into a plastic bag.
“Vietnamese, Chinese, what’s the difference. Soup.”
I chew on a poem Sharon Olds wrote.
I suck and savor, pull the marrow
out of its bone
with my mouth,
Slide her words
over my tongue.
Spicy
Sunny pink pom poms
fall, becoming dry brown fists
to fill compost bins.
There was a good fellow I knew
Chores he would happily do
But dishes in piles
were simply his style
His thoughts on this matter were few.
Spring’s announced by knocks.
Wooden poles in the alley,
Removed bit by bit.
