New Poem...yes!


I like the way boiling water sounds
when it’s poured
he says standing there in underwear
I have washed on Sunday mornings
at the laundromat next to Linden’s Funeral Home.
And he’s right, boiling water does sound different,
heavier somehow, but I would not have noticed
if he hadn’t said anything. Like when we were hiking
in Linn Run and our booted feet made the mudded earth sing
back to us in deep echoes—he pointed this out too just before
he kissed me then picked me a bouquet of wild lavender
and Queen Anne’s Lace. This mechanic with rough hewn thumbs
and callused palms who can see beyond the oily crust of wires and bolts
and coax a silent engine into life. But I’m the poet
I say and it’s my job to notice the world.

No comments: