The Street

Where's the file of good advice I've been

collecting for years, so I can reach in

each day for the one to lead me? Words

to say to the woman who opened

the cab door, and knocked me down

as I tried to slide by on my bike?

She kept saying how sorry she was

as I breathed on the asphalt, wondered

how long l'd have to lie there, what

had broken besides the new bike,

pain's general music keeping its dull beat

somewhere I couldn't find. Did I ruin

another pair of slacks? The white shirt?

There were other bodies standing over me,

there were cars, and trucks going by,

but I couldn't hear. The tracks overhead

were empty. Soon, I thought,

I'll pick myself up, walk into the office,

the meeting with the director about

next year's design. Two funerals,

my mother said she went to last week,

and I'd heard the names, though I didn't

know them. It's too hot again, the power

blinks off, and the day's work is gone.

Once I walked the six miles home

from downtown, so early I could count

everyone on my hands. And a week later,

I climbed to the top of a peak in Montana,

ate the last ripe peach I'd carried

from Colorado. Now the house I built

is home to bees and possums, windows

broken out, roof split and leaking. My legs

can't climb that ridge anymore. How long

till police come, an ambulance, the hospital?

Sweat dripped on the street as my eyes

waved. I didn't want to get up.