William J. Neumire
In the angling 10am light a two year-old bends and picks
up a woodchip. Thatís mine, he says, and tucks it
in the fold of his mitten. He owns it, not even
the darkness can steal that piece of wood
from his possession. Not even debt, ostracizing,
and sin -- which he knows nothing of.
Later, he chooses a leaf wetted against
The red plastic slide with leftover rain.
Thatís my leaf. Not yours. Mine.
Leaving the playground the car barely starts.
It pulls into life like a kicked dog. There is nothing
I can do. At home my wife is sleeping alone,
not dreaming of me. Even the cat eats his food and leaves.
There is little left to control. Through the windshield
I try to reclaim my world: My clouds, my wind-bent birch,
my teeming canal. My interim of chance between
where I was and where the giving up and taking
will bring me.
Brockport, New York
Adirondack Review, Poetry Midwest, Zuzu's Petals, 2River, AugustCutter, Blue Mesa Review, Melange, Pierian Springs, ThreeCandles, etc.
Resonance of Kin (forthcoming from 2River View)
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