Haiku 19

 Photo Credit: julieupmeyer.Licensed CC-BY-NC-ND.
Photo Credit: julieupmeyer.
Licensed CC-BY-NC-ND.
She rolls up her dress
blue flowers over boxers
near the Black Muslim.

At ninety-one, how
many other naps has she
taken in sunlight?

The floor, worn away
into grimacing profiles,
into continents.

The fly seeks the sun,
never getting through the screen
last week of July.

Her hair, purple waves
over a determined stare,
guitar on her back.

The terns flap southeast
and what if it’s the last time 
I behold such?

A short maple’s shade
two inches short of my ledge
neck craned for the bus.

An immense stone hand
holds two figures in its palm; 
a son and father.

Gull on a thermal,
mistaken, one instant, for 
stolen gossamer.

Raindrop to pavement
softer, just a touch, than one 
footstep in the night.

Her square Pan Am bag
holds her skirt down in the back
at long last, the train.

Ford F-150,
curbside, signal blinking, some 
armor sans a knight.

I take this long drink
of cool air through my window,
savoring nightfall.

Two crows on the track
one without a bite of bread 
follows the one with.

Wind doesn’t whisper
it reminds us of how we’ve 
mislaid memory.

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