Rabble
I do not know about the rabble
that keeps some people busy,
but I know about the perfect
green serene moments of clarity,
when it is just me and a wine
glass. Not the fast dazzle of
drizzle traffic, not the loners
who cross bridges and beg for
coins, but the small instant
when the mind closes in on true
beauty and leaves chaos behind.
Side Notes
I have a dear friend
who writes her notes
on the side, tiny characters
tattoo either rib cage.
She is her own walking
lexicon, an ambulatory
autobiography with truth
covered by flowery blouse.
Clothesline
Grandmother took all
our history, relics, first
kisses, moments beautiful,
hours tragic, and hung them
on the line in her last
late in life fit of madness.
So now we have to hide
them quickly from our
prying neighbors, or else
explain decades of skeletons
dancing in our closet.
Camille Clark
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