Pocketbook, Paper Towel, Dictionary
I hear a jet taking off from the airport
flying into the sugar-spilled sky.
A neighbor is using a buzz saw
on his new deck. It's April first
and I'm sitting on the porch with sun
on my legs, my iPad on my lap,
and a dictionary full of thoughts
in my head that are refusing to
come out to play. The zipper
on the pocketbook of my memories
is staying firmly closed. I can feel my fingers
wanting to tap dance on the keyboard
so I let them shuffle around a bit producing
black words on the paper towel-colored
background. Then I tear off the sheet,
crumple it up, and throw it away.
Instead, I take my phone over to the flower
box and snap a few pictures of yellow,
orange, pink. Brightness on water.
And the beauty that is America
on this ordinary morning in the middle
of the week in my 66th year knowing
some poems have no words.