American Poet
For weeks every Friday I went to see films at the School of Theology.
Every Friday I would get there half an hour early so I could buy candy
at the store that closed at seven.
I would walk out around the building and lean against a wall
facing Foothill Boulevard,
watching the blood and pearl of cars as they sped in opposite directions.
And every Friday there would be a cricket trilling endlessly
against the din of traffic.
Inaudible, unless you stood right at the spot where it lodged itself
in the little crack between the walk and the wall --
It legged the air ceaselessly where no one could hear it.
I would stand right next to it and watch the traffic stream.
Thinking it was like an American poet.
The moon pooled. The cars wheeled and wheeled.
Also read "Quelquechose" at From the Fishouse.
Wedding Day
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