Walk to Work
Here is a place
where everything used to matter
And so, everything matters.
A casual blizzard blankets distant echoes
-the laying of brick, the clap of a breaking axle-
My walk to work is
not like my grandfather’s.
I am reminded by a judgmental
mourning dove who calls
from the hill-top
steeple behind me.
It’s absurd.
To return as anything is absurd.
To my right, off the new stone path,
over the high running river, and pressed
into the granite, row on row of converted mills.
Fossilized, petrified, brick and mortar.
If there’s anything to say;
Nothing holds its composure like red brick.
An afternoon gull inspects
multiple lane bridges. I stroll
effortlessly across racing water.
Hop the same fall-out-junkie
on the same concrete stair.
Gulp the lukewarm grainy end
of a pleasant French-Roast. Snow is melting fast today.
30 Alder and two benches in a row along the waterfront.
A hung book to dry on the line with socks.
I must have startled the sleeping clod.
He lobs a tangerine down at me. I didn’t fall in!
His pants are county blues. Always envious of an outlaw.
Ok, how ya doin’? Here we go.
What I wouldn’t give to let
A tangerine be a tangerine again.
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