in front of the new park, constructed out of a need for nature
she needs nature to feel less like a stranger
she sees through the glass:
the sunlight at 9am, it molds around her shoulders
like a grandmotherly blanket on Winter break--
but there are no bologna sandwiches with cheese or games
like Kings in the Corner on lacquered table tops.
like Kings in the Corner on lacquered table tops.
And as she looks for distractions to accelerate
the hands on the digital clock,
she hears the hummingbird tune that takes her to
those short December nights when she had a week
of female surprises. The sounds, smells and cold aches
flooded her again as she remembered the luscious lips,
lucid legs that wrapped around her neck, and the half lies
she told in the name of loneliness and love.
She was the coldest she had ever been that December.
Too many regrets that she now can't say out loud, she
has to hide what she really wants. She has to dream now
of the days when she taught wiley-eyed- smelly- fifth graders
about the rewards of respecting Nature, a lesson that was built
into their genetic code long before
they had glasses
and middle fingers.
they had glasses
and middle fingers.
