once again winter chill
one bird black on a gray skeletal tree
gives call to the pale morning sky
along the fence patches of white spot the grass
not snow not yet but paint from earlier in the year
things aren’t always what they seem
no murder nor unkindness disturbed the hour
no message of untimely grief
most slept on, undisturbed by the solitary greet
some few walkers were all that heard
I will be bone
charred to ash and thrown
into the garbage with other refuse
I will be words
scribbled on old receipts
left in pockets of thrift store shirts
I will be scraps
discarded from plates of wearied diners
who only want to get on their way
nothing to be remembered
nothing worth recall
unless some small kindness that arose
helped someone else along the way
as a child once I stepped on a piece of glass
it sliced deep into my foot and so
the white sand quickly turned red
the sky above a blue backspace for seagulls
the sun so bright that the air shimmered with gold
the Gulf a marine hue with rhythmic waves
lost in this wonder I made no sound
but the sirens of the ambulance screamed
why should I care that you do not claim me
I threw away that tie long ago
never understood it from the beginning
this accidental kinship you pull like a chain
I never sought favor but sometimes found love
kindness wins me over at once
for you I’ve nothing but saddened compassion
a stranger so damaged you don’t wish any repair
a mirror into which I stare
are those my eyes that look so coldly back
too late to scatter sorrow
leaf fall is over and trees are bare
smoke drifts over the ridge
grief no more important than the clouds
rain hits the roof in the darkness
there the faint scent of tears
the moon a mirror in the night
the sun a heart become open
I know the lay of bones in this town
stories of what used to be where
what happened and when
many are just that, tales that are told
but they are flesh and the beating heart
what makes a place alive
one day no one will remember
these particular fables about half-buried things
no matter that and no loss
memories and ashes always dust the streets
in the sky hangs a moon
gauzed by fog and framed by late November trees
art positioned between two houses
just so for maximum effect
nothing but some random street piece
tacked up there without permission
probably unsigned
the feral cat who lives on the block
appreciates it from a fallen tree
the ground underneath rumbles from the weight
of displaced trucks and discarded dreams
I throw a handful of stars over my shoulder
and laugh as I walk away
the air chill and overcast
the ground bleak as the louring sky
then amidst the stippled rain
there catches the slanting light
the sun’s brief gold
shimmering in the drear and gloom
stands one tree high above
that tree shines
right now I am free to walk down the street
to be threatened by white men in white vehicles
free to go to the market and shops
to be harassed by white men in red hats
they think to intimidate, bully, and scare
by looming larger than they actually are
I have no fear of them or their kind
nothing they can do will make me afraid
I am freer than they can ever know
in ways that they can never understand
will not hesitate to look at them and ask
would you like to talk
tight as a knot, hard as a fist
pay close attention to this
some attachment, a driving need
some aversion, an illusory deed
a swirling colorful tale, a looping noisy cinch
the trick to catch and relax the pinch
when last we talked, I must have my say
now being more attentive to listen in a deeper way
lest I find I cannot breathe, choked by overween