Painting by Pamela Heater
Soft Corners
For decades, I had the same dream
Enrolled in some class I'd forgotten to attend.
Now that dream has been swapped out:
It's some medication I've forgotten to take.
The wind is indifferent to the pollen it seeds.
Makmoud will arrive in seven minutes
In a white Passat.
Weeds propagate, the dusk hangs on,
Landlocked. Bullfrogs moan, no.
I should have sheathed my Ozzie Smith,
My George Brett, my Rickey Henderson.
Now their rookie cards have soft corners
And diminished value.
I should've wrapped them like Kraft singles,
Like safe sex, but I put them in a shoebox
And left for New York City, then Oregon.
Siobhan in an amber Celica
Will arrive in four minutes.
Eventually you have to choose
Whether or not to look up and engage
With the migrating birds
And the phalanx of spring wildflowers.
