Sometimes, I just hang around
like a dead man’s coat,
or a vacant lot that trembles
when construction crews pass.

I go to a coffee shop
and sit for hours to watch
a window’s silent film—
people, scrawled and erased
on a long, gray page.

Later, when clouds blaze,
then suddenly grow old
and sad, I take a walk.

Evenings begins with headlights
and a sound track of birds
that fades from tree to tree.
Behind a garage, a few
strange weeds, taller than men…

1979 

 = Sarah Kobrinsky