a lot of people will be writing a poem a day. I probably won't. But I'll write more, post some of the good ones.
post
waiting for a letter
early spring, when sludge turns to mud
beneath big-wheelers in the driveway
and kids set off fireworks because they can,
then run behind the pickups
when cars from the arterial left-turn up
our street
is the strangest thing.
the brevity of excitement
at the sound of every engine, thought
that sunshine should somehow
make it quicker,
this information,
coming at what seems
a crawl, it is the strangest thing
that people still get their news
this way, by foot, by hand, by wheel.
waiting for the response
in early spring, as the bugs get active on the skin
and you're ready to move forward
but distract yourself with clicks and whistles
glancing out the window
at the street
and the kids swarming
the ice cream truck.
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