Today was room enough
to move and eat too many toffees,
waiting for the rush that never came
but instead pleasantly surprised
by a warmth creeping over me
and behind me pushing me into
a sunny afternoon, like a busker’s spring.
I think I’d be lost on Second Avenue
if let myself see all the things he wrote:
fire-eaters, acres of glass, marshmallows,
lips, and funeral homes, as well as things
I see: flags, men rushing redundantly, birds,
hands, and church spires on Second Street.
How we look is not exactly soul or sorrow
but tired with a bit of curiosity built in.
There is a smile echoed in words pressed
together like wet leaves, never to part.
I reluctantly greet spring, as maybe I am
allowed to bloom a little. If I can shimmy,
maybe the rest of me will come apart too.
The Word Rummager 
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