forget, for a moment, Mary Oliver
You aren't living by those same nimble deer she watches, patient and composed,
from her morning porch. You're hardly close to the metronomic lap of the Atlantic,
the dip and sway of shore birds gracefully skirting the bobbing boats.
For you, the landscape is unwieldy, not with a Provincetown lawn
mid-summer, but the scrapings of ice on your January windshield, and the wild
abandon of teenage boys you somehow corralled into a subway. Then there was
the obstacle course they made out of fire hydrants and concrete blocks the moment
they stepped out. Surely, you are wistful for Mary's tranquil view, a cup of tea
on her right, her pen poised above starchy white paper. But then again,
she'll miss the whistling ride home, the tracks still greasy from last night's rain.