Friday, September 24


I wrote a poem.


antlers on your wall
used to mean you had pulled on your boots in the dark before dawn
day after day and trudged,
snow crunching under them.

and at the very right moment held your very cold hands
and shoulder
and breath and eye steady
then not only shot but also gutted - the steam and the blood of it -
and dragged
that animal with the antlers
back to your house.

now it means
you got to the flea market on the train after brunch,
your cash ready, your coffee hot.
and them, waiting on a folding table,
resigned to hang on your wall and wink:
a life is a life.