It's Raining, Isn't it?

I crave those times I refused to notice,
when I lived behind the separator,
catching reflections in the transparent screen:
red snowsuits glancing by in January,
spring-green boots.

August—limp, dry, sticky with sap.
Camping in the lodgepole pines,
quiet needle carpets crunching,
hiking, breathing,
always such a long way to go.
Why am I always, always last?
I am weighted down with last year’s dinners.

I see a paint drip frozen dry on the yellow wall.
Why notice it now, when the time to fix is over?
Staring out the dusty window,
Rain throwing spatters down my face.

From Light to Dark on Madison Avenue