I find I hum to myself
even though the fish are gone
and the food is more costly.
Is it the colors, blue, green?
Or the sway of the short skirts,
eyes meeting eyes so boldly?
With people’s attention gone,
instead of trumpeting war,
headlines turn to mere gossip
leafed in sidewalk restaurants
by readers in search of jobs
or sex in between each tip.
The same as birds, overhead,
certainly as numerous
and oblivious to more.
Winter, in my back, and front,
I, squeaking and revolving
like an old grand hotel door.
In exile, bittersweet as
the taste of no smoke, no whips
on my back in breath and length.
Time is once again a friend,
a tree, a child that I watch
grow in tenderness and strength.
jam11
