The Town

TWO POEMS

THE TOWN

Year after year the hawks fly lower.

The wind blows faster and the last lover

Leaves the park bench to the gaunt itinerant.

Without a step retraced. His own inheritor.

We are familiar with the old erosion

Whorled in our skin. Under our signature

It lets the wind in. We are all heart weathered,

See in the dark our retina and think it art.

Gall from the predatory bill

Drips on the roofs and trickles down

Through the chinked shingles. So the child waking

Chokes in the smoky air and sees

His father with contorted face

Speak hate and rise from long debate

And lead the tense unhurried men

Out the back door and turn again.