Between Difficulty and Delight

~ after Chen Chen 

There was a white, four-door Toyota driving up
and down the street, stopping at every door.

No omelet today, but there's 
leftover corn bread.

Yesterday a poet said "nuts" and dissolved 
into laughter.

Try a matcha latte, oat milk, 
smidge of whipped cream.

Rest.
Cry.

Rest. Restore dead Pilea?
Mint pushing out of the pot, oblivious that summer's over.

The woman got out of the car and came halfway up the walk.
Hesitating. Retreating.

Think of the Three Immortals, 
confronted with a compass.

Someone you don't speak to anymore said: Your life could also be a poem.
But hanging in the window like an unwashed rag.