so fires eaten/ questions abated/ working hands and/ lost dreams to days/ honorable and/ hungry/ fortune is silence, truth/ and the calming acceptance/ of history/ melody makes a lover/ when passion and poison/ loosens its marks/ I do not want to be found/ I only want the/ soft smiles/ in antique paintings.

I guess it's anger.

This Humble Little Life

Today, walking home from work on the wet levy,
I pretended I was in a 1950s Japanese film.
My wide, stiff pant legs hitting back and forward against my calves,
and the deep expanse of a river,
rushing, filling,
treaded carefully by the thin legs of a white crane.
The slick embrace of twin cement high roads,
holding a recess of secrets in green, brown, and gold.
Tiny flowers, weeds really, painting a softness.
Silence.
And me.
With satisfied muscles,
coming home to my quiet little room with the bay windows
and the mattress on the floor,
where a borrowed cat hiding in a cave of blankets waits for me.
where a baby dove in a brown box waits for the seeds nestled under my arm.
My yellow work jacket is beaten by the rhthym of rain on the hood
And I remember the feel of fluttering gray pinfeathers inside my hands earlier in the day.
Too young to fly.
I climb the stairs to the door with chipping paint and I hope for the best.
D