A thin black
crow calls like
crazy from a tanked
phone line
laughing with nothing
to say—
A white bag
marked Thank You
brims with bright
wind in a tree
branch and no boons
to gain—
The cardboard
box letters of
a fairweather busker
lean hard on spare
change having no place
to stay—
We're taught at least
three things
without being told: to leave
some things unmade, unsaid
and unsold—
nothing left to learn leaves nothing
heavy to hold.
