A Cold Walk Home In October Dusk

This is my most recent writing.

Smoke flees from an ashtray,
Plastic daisies that feel like paper—
A man leans on the arm of a porch swing

Held up by a cinder-block.
Book of “Dream Songs” lies
In his lap, closed—

I walk further, crunching
Leaves, a boy sits on his brown
Lawn cutting his jeans with a razor

A stranger on the bench at the corner
Grips tight his laundry, dirty
Bed sheets he pounds his eyes down.

I walk further.
At home the lower leaves hang in the
Sun, a rabbit scatters from my yard

To the neighbor’s window.  A fortune-teller
Predicts three deaths—
They always come

In threes.  In my kitchen,
Dusty light from the window falls—
My bare table.