On this Corner
Gawking at this house
my glasses catch
the reflection of passing vehicles
just long enough to blot
out a window
or a door
or a porch railing
even the squirrel hanging
on the gutter.
All of it
actually
is unimportant
it doesn’t matter
if this house is blue
or yellow
it’s only a speck
in a life passing by
What if the corner house was gone tomorrow?
Would it matter
if that house changed
colors—orange to teal, added
a door
or a window
or a room even
walled-up every knob
and screen
but the back door?
Across from the Dying Pine
The sidewalks are silent.
A single bird chirps
in the dying pine across the road.
Over a rooftop, the sun
can be seen, and so can the moon.
The sidewalks are silent
before the wind and smoking chimneys.
I come here every morning,
across from the dying pine,
to sit and capture blackberries and squirrels in my mind
before they are lost
to the pounded sidewalks.
Why does this day need to be broken with rain?
Why not enjoy
the dying pine across the road? while
the sidewalks are silent.
The Stop Sign
In front of me
are four letters
that command
wanting me to obey
But often
I snub the octagon
brush the red
from my sight
A four letter word
so pounding how
can I ignore
but I do
and so do others
I command you
to
STOP this poem
Up To the Large Metal Z On the Chimney
a siren stops
right at this corner
below the Z attached to the chimney
the echo cutting my ears
my eyes my fingertips shoved
in my ears
blocking the emergency
from my mind
my brain stares
up to the large metal
Z grasping onto the chimney
an ambulance loads
with gurney medical box
pulling technician’s arm longer
to reach up and yank
that Z down to tell me
the meaning
how the woman belongs to the Z
and they attach it
to her snoring heart
wrapping the body silently
the siren stops
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