a walk along Hugo Street,
and i'm passing large, luminous houses with
expansive, fertile front yards echoing the bark
of the family dog. here is the picturesque thing,
the beautiful, intractable serenity of a manicured lawn,
but what i love is the secret act
of looking into windows where someone
is typing madly away at a novel
or better yet, a love letter,
a wall of books behind the heavy oak desk,
pouring words onto paper with such concentration
the telephone goes unanswered,
dinner gets burnt,
and a monday is completely irrelevant.
this is what poetry is.
a desk marked by a curious orbit
of coffee stains. the trash bin
overflowing with receipts.
the walls, painted a ludicrous, caffeinated purple.
a single geranium on the verge of a vigorous bloom.
words like fire.
a woman pausing at a window for stories.
a fertile, overlarge lawn.
the secret act of looking.
a cloud of longing posing
as a love letter.