Have Fields

A siren cuts through the fog, echoing. Cold
through sickly branches, the neighbor kids
hold snowballs behind their heads.
Shall we dance? Her eyes close, breathing
becomes free. Fade to black over
sounds of dinner.
A gloved hand pats the animal’s back,
returns her soul for another day. There are
ways to do good, without being good.
A defined moral is a dandelion picked in spring,
and kept until next year. Living room glare
flashes off and on; this is surely the 1980s,
when life was learned between commercials.
It can be hard not to seek an end to summer.

This entry was posted on Monday, April 20th, 2009 at 2:02 PM and is filed under poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.