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.
lunachik 