95 degrees and 1.7 miles and tight jeans
One street, full of old houses, roofs caving in,
Spiral staircases and on a scale from one to ten
Every house was an eleven (as far as ghosts go)
Past the house with a fitted sheet twisting in the
Stale breeze, contributing to the gentrification
--or maybe despite it--a canal like those of my childhood
Drifts past, unassuming, ready to pull any kid
Three feet or under through
To the mushy depths. What a way to go.
Dammed up by moldy crabapples, bottle caps,
Baby ducks bobbing their heads, diving for nothing,
For oily trash! I talk to them for awhile, I ask them
What they’re doing, eating that. Their mother weakly
Paddles in place with her mouth hanging open, how did we
Come to this? Or maybe she is just hungry.
One duckling suddenly flips, the water barely moves,
Belies his instinct, but I secretly hope it’s something his
Mother taught him because he had to learn faith, too.
He had to learn disappearing into the vague deadly
Currents would only be temporary, only be dark
As he tunneled to the bottom for something only his heart
Understands--to partake of something, to hold onto it yourself,
What else is there besides that? And then he surfaces,
Shivers and shakes his feathers,
noticing me for the first time.
I helped them cross the road. And in that moment, I swear we were.. not gonna overuse that dang quote. Dangit!!!
The rest of my walk was littered with haunted houses and gated yards and flowers.
95 degrees is a cheap price to pay for such delights!-your modern day Anne Shirley
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