Time for Song
On the occasion of walking
my dog in the early morning rain
By Amy Souza
I’m looking for a sign. Almost always for a sign:
Chopin for President
What more do you want?
By the golf course: yellow stripes, white lines, crooked tracks, orange fencing, stacked lumber. Taken together, this must mean something. That bird’s blue wing, the other’s black eye. Bottoms up to our world. Like the ones at St. James.
Knife in my side where the dog’s tumors might be.
Don’t feed those birds, it says all over, but mothers let their babies throw kernels to the wind. Just there, child approaches goose, eye to eye, so close they might embrace. The only one concerned is me.
Have you ever been stabbed?
No, but this is what it would feel like.
Chalk butterflies weighted to pavement, how I know I’m close to home. But why should new rain smell of chocolate?
Or pirate ships build bridges, oblong rocks skim oars, aching thighs continue on?
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