I am the same, having consumed all my chances
I dally down familiar roads kicking up dust in the blazing sun listening to cicadas attack curled leaves on the red bud trees shrieking shrill songs sounding out terror trusting instinct
time is short they sing this is our one chance
out of the dirt into the heat red eyes bearing down determined feverishly seeking sex, sucking hot sap before time reaches its boiling point and evaporates
Waiting
The haggard man on the northeast corner of Hyde Park is there every day with a cardboard sign, white with red lettering, declaring that the end is coming.
Some people say, that guy’s troubled. I try to go about my day as though he’s wrong—as though the world is infinite. I do my yoga, balance tenuously on one leg in tree pose, hands at my heart. I wash the dishes in the sink, wipe down the stone counter, toss the damp cloth into the laundry basket. I feed the cat, pay two bills, call an old friend, write a poem about a crow.
I do all this, but inside I am waiting, preparing, trying not to be surprised when the man is finally right. On an ordinary Wednesday I walk up close to him and say, I believe you. He opens his eyes wide, spits on the ground at my feet. I say, I’m sorry. And he says, Me too miss. Me too.
Someone somewhere is . .
Jo Tyler is a queer poet, elder, storyteller, and mosaic artist. A retired Penn State professor and former Fortune 500 Vice President, she happily returned to poetry after decades of writing prose in business and academia. Her poems have been published in Yellow Arrow Journal, Maryland Literary Review, and MacQueen’s Quinterly. She lives in Baltimore, Maryland with her wife Gail and her little dog Moxie.