windrag : poetry : journal

:: f : w : i : w ::

Month: April, 2006


the workday’s done, (if you can call it work), the body rests (if you can call it still), the mind moves (if you call the same old expectations ‘moving’)


i wheel the trusty bike off to the market pedal and coast, and then i park it i shop and race back home, and what a dope forgot the laundry soap


laurel likes to punch me in the stomach and loves the slap-hands games my dad used to play with me. we cover our faces, make elephant trunks, adapt to each other’s sizes


we tuned our voices, weekly, ’til our intervals finally physically jumped and shook the wood we stood on. then, it was done. no point in dwelling on the past.


the wind can’t quite decide which way to blow a busload of kids, chattering voices and basketballs bouncing, echoing off of housefronts, a helicopter, the train. then suddenly, silence.