Tuesday the 10th
A spring day as unsatisfying
As seeing the reflection
Of your math teacher
In the ice cream shop window.
Walking uphill to work
With two cups of coffee
Neither of which you
Can drink from because
Rain returning to the creek
Has undermined loose sidewalk
Bricks and because
You can’t remember
Which cup was yours.
Near the End of the First Winter of My Sixth Decade
Through a brick-lined alley where I read my life’s sentence
I step over a rivulet of snowmelt that flows behind me into the past
walking with an open cup of coffee in a soft cold rain
Cool Morning, On the Road to Work, and Later
Sparrows huddle under the car’s warm frame.
As I come back with my coffee they flow out
between the tires like a sound. Gray clouds nest
on the ridgeline. Driving into this image of sullenness
lightens me—as I pass through the opaque menace thins
to harmless mist. On the road home the light rain
drones outside the window like a distant train.
From my porch my daughter and I watch bats
sweep away the dusk. Pockets of light appear,
tuck into lamps for a few hours, then go out.