THE POET LOOKS OUT ON P STREET IN LATE DECEMBER
by Ralph Dumain
Why? Gray birds of wet days move while I'm still. Why?
Then orange streaks of sad skies just run lazy off, way off.
The creek in Bugger Park huddles in cold solstice winds.
That's when I work, though I should rest in peace, in peace.
Then streams of chill water, streams of consciousness crystallize.
(Probably written December 1986, while looking out the window at work. Edited 24 November 2003)
©2003 Ralph Dumain. All rights reserved.
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Uploaded 24 November 2003
©2003 Ralph Dumain