Harper's Ferry
Warm October, West Virginia,
paper plate of Mongolian.
Is it enough, blinds pulled, night,
one cough from downstairs? You've got
barbecue, a bee stir-fried
into the vegetables, the blue-
load of work to do. What if nobody
ever listens to you again? You'll put on your
grass bands, play perpetual
motion in the pasture;
clothes and go to the post office for
several reasons; one of them: just to see
women sell lavender herb
candles, hand-crafted dulcimers,
if they're still there. They'll move
with their papers, a slight glimmer,
maple leaves burned
into the wood of renewable
like they know you maybe. Except
for that beautiful one; she'll always
have calendars. Maybe there
is work tomorrow;
act like you are a recycling bin or a cornea
or a pillar. Pluck the strings of the violin
in Washington; maybe a few
somberly dressed Amish
feel lost, wonder why there is so much
sweating. The TV is off. There were
girls trying to catch tiny wooden
balls on wooden pegs,
downhill and luge. Every four years
I think you say the same thing. Try
walking and tossing. A religion.
You are attracted by an amphitheater
to wear something different tomorrow.
Smile at somebody you don't know
on hay bales to rest upon.
You eat. I eat. The music plays.
It's risky, but hell, what isn't?
Buy a can of peas just for the color.
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