Springtime Buffet
Below my office window, in quad of grass
blanketed with blue bonnets bisected by 114 and
McArthur, are a dad and a couple of toddlers. He has
the tots propped up amidst flowers and chiggers,
tripod and 20 megapixel camera at the ready,
Infinity SUV parked on shoulder
of access road, a bit too far away to make a run for it.
As this scene plays out, I notice from my 11th
floor roost that I am not the only voyeur. Two
buzzards perch on ledge next to window
and I can see the scene reflected in their eyes,
a tiny bit of droll on their becks—
don’t you just love springtime?
**
gunshots and heart attacks
motel sign said
if only the towels
could talk
oh, the stories they would tell
as though tales
would be of family outings
reunions, weddings
funerals, not divorces
girls pressed
into prostitution
lovers separated
suicides
honeymoons on the round
heels of commerce
women confusing sex
with love, next door
young fingers
explore, giddy
racing new emotions
gunshots
heart attacks
detectives and attorneys
the wonder is
the towels don’t burst
into flames
