Air so heavy with pollen and perfume, you wear it home.
Comb it into the bathroom sink. Some settles on the lacy fern.
A towhee face to face, not moving from her cypress perch.
Spinning song. Her eyes upon you. Spinning wide. Spinning round.
Like the neighbor’s old lawn sprinkler with three arms.
The one that would walk if it could.
And put its copper in your empty palm. Spinning long.
To the widow on the corner. In her faded floral reds and blues.
Corduroy. Long sleeves. Tea stains. Powder clouds.
Cutting back a rose gone wild. Says she must take it out.
Its old stump still can tear a glove or two.
A lone cactus in desert dusk.
You look up. Just in time to climb aboard a chicken bus.
And meet someone kind enough to take you home.
To feed you and spend the night.
In the morning the little ones laugh at you.
Weightless angels, bringing light.