By Darlene Young
There are days when, visiting a depressed friend, I find
her houseplants are dying in the background
while she claims all is well
but also days when the morning percolates
in carnation pink glory behind and above
the smog, dewbangling the cobwebs.
Some days the smell of dirty snow, grim with the sins
of the city, makes everything taste of pity, mis-strung and trite,
but some days the sweet pale call of wind in spruces
summons me, though I’m not sure—don’t even want to be sure—
what it’s calling me to.
What a world, sodden with polkas and quick loans,
graffiti and gummy bears.
But the shook foil! The creek-cooled watermelon!
This grand, sad trunk-or-treat,
junk drawer of twist-ties and twine—
I still crave it, lick the back of the spoon.
The brindled shiver of a curtain in a drowsy afternoon,
bumblebees and Crackerjack, a toddler putting
his whole fist through the middle of his birthday cake:
enough! I’m snagged, in for the long haul
tap-dancing until the curtain call.
This poem originally appeared in Young’s book, Count Me In, published by Signature.