By John Grey
I go home the long way,
via the muse, the roses,
the curly numbers on the letter boxes.
By the lush green park,
poems come in fours.
I harvest the slate-blue eyes
of a passing woman.
I corral what a man must be thinking
to gnash his teeth like that.
Squirrel, you’re no longer a recluse
in your stalwart pine.
You’re parked beside the noisy blue-jay
in a thought, in a diary, in a code,
in a word.
Even the old couple on the bench
aren’t immune from my dawdling journey.
You are the gray-haired strophe.
You are the arthritic antistrophe.
You are the epode,
lines still gripping.
Copyright 2015 Gray