West Barry Street
I love the ordinary doingness
of things, the man in an olive
green jacket putting a shovel
into the trunk of his clean
grey car, leaving it open.
The redhead hustling
across the street, the stroller
in front of her bumping
over the curb, the white dog
roped to the playground fence
facing the other direction. Coming
back, the man puts in a folding
chair, another, a woman
joins him, her tan jacket
flapping, she zips it, they drive
away. Someone jogs past
as if it were her natural pace,
without effort or strain. Why
a shovel? It was red. Headphones
are getting larger again, as are strollers.
My best friend’s cat had one ear
removed entirely, and doesn’t seem
to notice or mind. My astrologer says
sometimes you burn enough karma to get
a pass life, an easy ride. Last night
my neighbors to the east
had a party, the stoop abuzz
in stilettos without coats, and I thought
of going over in my house clothes
to say hello and offer blankets
or tea, but they didn’t seem
to be feeling the cold. I went back
to my work and texting
with a friend whose wife made
a terrible mistake, the noise
from the party a backdrop
of garbled babble and laughter,
wind against the windows,
the occasional casualty of glass.
| Marty McConnell |
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