Issue 168, Winter 2003
It must be cold in the ground these winter mornings.
The man who delivers the paper drives
up our hill each dawn, and the news arrives
with a slap on the stoop. Like feeding seals: slap, slap, slap. Or high fives.
I read what’s put before me:
the mayor wants some schools in the city closed;
an immigrant washed ashore wearing women’s clothes;
science has discovered that the brain doesn’t know what it knows.