From my screened front porch with
sagging wicker chairs beyond begging
for a coat of white paint I watch
a man walk down my morning street
Hidden by a Boston fern that lived
all winter with barely surviving
geraniums now blooming scarlet like
the blood of Christ my mother says
The man wears a backpack, blue shirt
on Wednesdays, midweek casual as
he puts strawberry scented chapstick
on his dry lips efficiently
That he doesn't see me watching him
guessing the course of his day
while I wait for the sun, listening
to the beginnings of another dawn
Matters very little or makes all the
difference if details tell stories
that otherwise would remain in
someone's backpack or pockets
I am just going outside and maybe
sometime he will notice me, wonder
why my braids are damp or slippers
soggy with dewfall like yesterday
When the night sky was all mine
and the fireflies flirted as birds
finally stopped singing worm songs in
temporary darkness where dreams of
Days past and yet to happen blend
blurring in possibility as my fears float up
joining unseen clouds and my hopes are
just enough weight, like a gentle blanket
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