The boy in the window
where the sun is shining
does not see me.
Nor does he hear
the leaf blower. (I’d like
not to, too, even if
it’s electric.)
There’s skittering and
a bird I don’t know
and more in the time
that this happened.
In that long slow fall
you could almost —
you almost thought the cold
would never come.
I read a piece once
about Chinatown waiters –
about the hours they worked
and the money they made,
and how they sent it all home.
Someday I’ll watch
the traffic go by.
I’ll pour the soup
and won’t spill a drop.
that the spider’s bite is not deadly –
that the legs under the bed
have no toxin to share.
on a cold morning
when the sun strikes
and half its life is coming
and half the world is gone
Maybe I don’t have her hat.
But I could get one.
Utrecht Journal 