|
Anything,
the stoop and the snow,
Mahler, tail pipes, pancakes
and carless days
late in the year smelling woodchuck.
There was a wild pigeon
attending to the past
in slow motion, picking bread in pools of still water,
delayed by my own unsteady translation.
The season's toughness
is a sleeping dog.
The clean, cold runaway wind says
to stand outside undressed
while the procession of clouds
spread quietly over New Jersey.
The pigeon rushes while you wait
bared down in presumptions and Mother's phone call.
It's the conversation
you would have had
with that dog
or Socrates.
| Natalie
Hope McDonald, August 2002 |
|