Walk, Memorial Day by Elaine Terranova


The flagged houses.

The yellow cat I frighten.

The tick of sprinklers.

The picket fences.

The dried bouquet tossed on a lawn.

The sun at eye level.

The homeowner pruning boxwood.

The cellophaned door.

The essence of jasmine.

The anthills, the ants.

The wrong turn.  The cars.

The mental health banner.

The churches.  The market.

The streets that go uphill.

The streets that go back.

Summer St.

The same yellow cat

on the opposite side.

The charcoal grilling.

The stranger who passes.

“Smells good,” he will say.

The path of impatiens.

The tripartite birches.

The snatches of song.

The tree house.

The rhododendrons

that strike out like fists.

The drooping branches.

The quiet, clinging.

The evening.

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Elaine Terranova


© 2005-2008 Per Contra: The International Journal of the Arts, Literature and Ideas