Night Stop

He has only his open hand and his
sweetly accusatory
Bless you
. We have only
to turn our heads and he's gone.

Who says we have
to offer a cloak to every
shivering soul on Solano?
A nip of remorse
is almost its own reward.

Inside, in the caustic light,
a push-broom relocates
the dust of day.
The checker scans us
with a sleepwalker's blinkered gaze.

There's a raw wind blowing
but you and I
will be home in no time
to naked comforts. We'll fall asleep
to the murmur of the fridge.

We walk out with summer,
bagged and paid for:
strawberries piled in plastic coffers,
raspberries, blueberries,
shade-grown Jamaican coffee,

not forgetting sunflower seeds
for our little sisters the sparrows
who are always hungry,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.


(To return to the Spring 2012 Table of Contents, click here.)


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