After the Morning Commute
Pinions spread to the late December’s fog drafts
the hawk or perhaps an eagle
slants, curves through a sixty degree angle
imbued in mist and new snow
talons sharpening in the morning’s lull.
the raw bare foot in the snow
bled and bled as eons pass
that need of crackling paper positioned
the urge to chew on sentiment
never tamped under
crunching we must go if we are to live!?
Inner heart strung, we listen to a harp strummed
spider webs and flinch flight
memoried snow banked, thawing,
we catch each note avidly
a drop of boiling taffy in a common glass
are we at this thread or perhaps that?
Warmth out of season, a stubborn petunia bloomed purple
a man in Home Depot stared up into an artificial tree
I scooted by, wondering what artificial thoughts matched
Joni Mitchell’s If I had skates to skate on,
words printed on a page siding with daughter’s illustration
pups demanding I toss the new ball
I run into a friend I barely know from Facebook,
I smack into her account of holding a pitbull
holding and crying as it died there in the road
and cherishing what was leaking out.
“Cry me a river!” as another sun sets
and a soon to be president ignores and ignores
the sight of that dog prostrate
a bit of Jesus there, hard,
that fake tree a treasure or a bill to the hardware man.