...you hold a poem
that functions half as personal
note and half as telescope
to the heights
awaiting us all.

It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

Three birds sit on a wire
One bird poops
Three birds shit on a wire

The outfit, tight in places,
and loose in some, says as much
in the buttons as it does in cuffs.

and sadness clung to me
because she did not know
how to be alone.

I like watching
from inside, as if locked away
and stealing the distinct pleasure
of a high school marching band drum section’s
pure perfection. How stoically they play
in the exhaust of a fire engine’s wake.