Your mediocre dog
does not partake in birthday

parties or attend weddings,
theatrical  events

bar and bat mitzvahs
nor dabble in oil paint,

yet the pooch makes
the most out its twelve

years of life and appears
happy when compared

to the seven billion
humans on earth.

The man who sleeps in the diner's back booth
will not care  if your mother suffers  from
plantar diabetic neuropathy, or that your
cousin read **** and gulps *****.  

No,  trivial matters will not worry him
because he ****** himself dormant
after he awakens, that will be
his primary concern.

Five-thirty a.m., and I step
outside for the newspaper,

not four feet away
a raccoon sits like

a paunchy Buddha,
smiling as only

liars and sick
animals can.

I toss a half-eaten
bacon between  its  legs,

Pick up the paper,
back away.

Entangled in plastic
and  fishing line
eyes pecked by
crows; a new
America.

Atop a fresh
fall of snow

a blood red
cardinal

awaits
spring.

I search for the best lay of the land
between hillsides & beyond
concrete

where gravel roads wander
toward birdsong and gut
laughter with

oak  fence posts
and sleep filled
nights.

There are  fingerprints burned
into these kilns, leather hands

held  waists of women
with wide hips, who gave

birth to gaunt-faced children;
now, the bricks lay across

America’s streets,
forgotten.