Word and Street

I am happy with the poems, as happy as when I walk down a familiar street and think about the families that live in each separate house, their likely struggles and obligations and overall success. I do not have suburban nightmares. Error is a common birthright, among others, independent of place and address.

Or, as when one prepares an onion, slicing the ends so that it peels more easily, then cutting up the layers for cooking.

Or a typical Sunday jaunt, to see the local waterfalls for example, and the cars that approach in the opposite lane, one after another, expressionless faces. There, beside the road, a parked car and a man reaching into the rear seat perhaps consoling a child or rearranging things. Eight miles to go.

Almost all the time I consider the next step but you anticipate me, so I like the poems. I am almost lost and closely found, which I recognize and appreciate. A small dog emerges and circles its owner then retreats behind the house, which includes a garden on the sidewalk meridian, tomatoes and flowers.