Too deeply sensing, spare yourself
the mythology of office doors
shut on solemn desks & chairs,
the longing of the never-ringing telephones
all multiple-lined & overprepared
for business, for warm ears tender mouths.
Rise on silly memories, layered of just
the cold-room at the grocery. How it
groans of meat, bubbles with fish,
creams itself and me with witless dairy.
The herbs in their baskets frond
toward their remembered roots.
Garage nextdoor contains clutter
more interesting than our own, less poor,
though poorer too. Less owned, less used.
A can of spoons a vintage dress. Possibility stored.
Raise the door a crack. Escape to air, the local fair.
Aware every game is rigged, even the ones we win.
The morning we stood there, looking up,
The sky so blue--more blue than water,
more blue than sky, &
bluer than television.
Author Discusses Poems