THE THAW

A kind of day you’d push a baby stroller for hours,
sit by a plastic yellow and royal blue playground,
or gently push a swing, a day to seek the sun,
the one that’s been hiding for so many weeks.

Gusting breezes, forty foot tall scrub pines,
swaying, sounding different than the oaks.
Pinecones hang like hand grenades for
just a little bit longer, not time to fall yet,
waiting to fit into the scheme of things .

A scent of Pinesol ,little tree car air fresheners
makes him mumble aloud, “so clean, so fresh.”
Even the white plastic grocery bag looks alive
snagged on the top branches of the briars.
A shiny 16 ounce Coors Light can glistens in
the noon hour’s sunshine, the road salt smeared
across the parking lot and paths reminds him
of a relief pitcher’s worn,stained cap in July.

Snow melting all at once, rushes into storm drains,
giving the illusion of a powerful giant waterfall.
Old Glory and the POW-MIA flags flap crisply
like someone snapping sheets before folding
them with a partner in the corner Laundromat.

A maple leaf scratches the sidewalk like the rake
that didn’t drag it to the pile at the forest’s edge
to join the others in the art of decomposition.
And here he sits alone, noticing how perfect it seems,
thinking about how tomorrow, it will all be different.

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