It’s as good as any—small change excuse
to waddle through the white
noise of crickets and cicadas capture
morning ears that fail to blot
out the city noise of garbage
trucks that beep and distant broken mufflers
that join Clinton Street commuters a half—
mile away. No escape. Not even the pitiful
cry of the lonely hawk can erase
wanting another place, some other place
that got pinned to a distant map
like the heaven Jesus promises; too bad
he gives rooms in a mansion.
You wanted a cottage by the lake, made quiet
by the still waters. Put up with the angels,
eternity’s choices are few.
