He has only his open hand and his
sweetly accusatory
Bless you. We have only
to turn our heads and he’s gone.
Who says we have
to offer a cloak to every
shivering soul on Solano?
A nip of remorse
is almost its own reward.
Inside, in the caustic light,
a push-broom relocates
the dust of day.
The checker scans us
with a sleepwalker’s blinkered gaze.
There’s a raw wind blowing
but you and I
will be home in no time
to naked comforts. We’ll fall asleep
to the murmur of the fridge.
We walk out with summer,
bagged and paid for:
strawberries piled in plastic coffers,
raspberries, blueberries,
shade-grown Jamaican coffee,
not forgetting sunflower seeds
for our little sisters the sparrows
who are always hungry,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
[brclear]
(To return to the Spring 2012 Table of Contents, click here.)