a day is worth so much more than fifty cents

i keep finding myself driving down the short, short street

where i lived while you died — past the canary-yellow

pick-up whose bed remains empty; past the arched-flowered

front porch; past the circular stone drive.

 

where we walked to the first school bus stop,

beside the cool morning bench and lavender

bushes and walnut tree growing a stunning yellow

fungus in the shape of a swelling flower;

 

where my girl waited and cheerily tossed rocks,

petals, leaves into the gaping hole where the tree’s limbs

intersect — as if to say, you are beautiful; you are

worthy of receiving love unto your selves.

 

just down the street, the city library — where i can

never seem to stay in good graces; three weeks just fly

by and away and leave me in the breathless red:

a day is worth so much more than fifty cents.

 

 

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