In the wild west
known as
plain ordinary Tuesday,
the myriad
looks coming at me—from the mirrors
and the glazed windows of closed
shops—are all shady.
If even this gray rain
is not just the gray rain,
then surely
there must be something
that I could symbolize.
I keep joking
like pacing wet tennis shoe
laps around
the dark formidable
landmass
of what I knew,
until I've got a few more
of the landmarks
sorted out—the blank silent looks
are a meditation, a prayer
for less dependence
on supplication;
the laughter
is a chattering river—cutting deep
enduring canyons.
