when I lived behind the separator,
catching reflections in the transparent screen:
red snowsuits glancing by in January,
August—limp, dry, sticky with sap.
Camping in the lodgepole pines,
quiet needle carpets crunching,
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|