Corner Pocket

 

We took the cemetery road downtown with July cooking

into the bottom of our shoes. Stone door hobbit hole

mausoleum. City deer having picnics. Eric and the turkey feather

circling in infinity. The kids, they come and go, and come and go,

swelling up the parking lots and parking spots. The parade in between.

Poor man's pizza heartburn 2 am. One day that creek will get too high

and spill out onto the lowlands. 100 years is not that long. And then what.

Viva will cross the street and we'll remember happy bees

on the other corner. A truck that could not stop. Silly taxes,

disaster fountain. Hard to catch like water. A couch resting

in the nets. I promise you don’t have to own a place to belong there.

Pressing for red heat at the bus stop in January, a guitar

and amp across from the liquor store nailing Under the

Bridge without a single applause. I couldn’t keep you

from unloading a million rounds into the ravine, poison soil picking

at the petals, climbing the shale, the undercurrent winning

yet again. And then what. Melting glacier in the curb cuts.

So many people I don’t talk to anymore. A picture of a lawnmower

left in the middle of a half-cut yard. Riding the market wave.

How I love to see you there with the day sewn on your crown.

Always be cheering. Even if it’s just one bare palm after the next,

we still want to see magic, secretly. You know that, too.