Why is it so hard to empty oneself
of thoughts and things; to quiet
the foot that wants to tap all
throughout each TV commercial
or slow the hand that wants to dip
into the bowl until every single bit
of popcorn is gone? A girl in class
fingers the hem of her shirt, starting
from the front and going all around
to the back. At the grocery checkout
the man ahead in the line has lots
of beer and wine in his cart:
Hurricane supplies, he grins.
Which is sort of the same as your
pack of dumplings, can of wasabi
peas, boxes of Pocky. You remember
the last time this kind of thing
happened: they issued the evacuation
order, with no time to pack all but
a bag each. So much for your intention
to donate, downsize; then scan all
important documents. You put chairs
up on the dining table. You unplugged
appliances and touched your books.
You looked around, wondering what
would still be there on your return.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.