Back Pocket Book Entry 1


It’s a shame not

to have a poem

about fishing

or hunting

or farming

and only the occasional

of family

and these neighborhoods

scattered through life.

But it’s sad like a thin blonde

Slavic grad student

saying ‘sorry’ about

me missing my bus

downtown

Then turning back to her thoughts

and I to my music

and Carver

while staring at her back

and magenta scarf,

creased wide-leg

blue jeans.

But, not as sad

as going to work

where no one

sees stock

as real food

and necessities

anymore.

Where broken bottles

of milk

and carts of bread

pounds of meat

are nothing more

than one less thing

to handle.

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