My car is covered in Delaware,
stolen reds and yellows,
for all too short of a time
but I,
ever intrepid,
pluck one from the wiper
with my hazards on
before turning away
from you
turning back
onto the interstate
to keep and press
into a scrapbook
events that lead
to more than just
too-warm roads
in October's Indian summer.
The world is heavy with responsibility like sodden bags of refuse
too heavy for an old woman to carry to the curb, weighted
as they are with un-potentials and broken keepsakes
ceramic figurines of once-children so gifted who now quietly
type at their keyboards and earn a living.
I see this world and raise it this strangeness that stands resolute
at and among the darkness in corners; seeks it out and confronts it,
with broad and bell-clear brays of laughter, warmly stoic,
quiet after the keyboard with knees in the earth and hands
busy but gentle, softly tending green.
