Rusty leaves still cling to red oak.
Drizzle smells of screens and river
mud, puddles drift down
deserted streets, small tributaries
to some mysterious sea.
Poor sailor caught in an old song,
I will go to sea again, take ship
on those winding waterways.
Hard deck splintering
beneath my feet, hands burning,
stung with rope.
No squirrels, no diving birds.
Woodpeckers who stripped
bark from two dead trees ten feet
above the leafy grass shelter today
somewhere in this sodden fog.
How easily everything disappears.
Baseball diamond empty, infield
soaked to rich mahogany, backstop cold,
misted over with beaded drops of metallic rain.
Steve Klepetar has recently relocated to the Berkshires in Massachusetts after 36 years in Minnesota. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, including three in 2017. Recent collections include A Landscape in Hell (Flutter Press), How Fascism Comes to America (Locofo Chaps), and Why Glass Shatters (One Sentence Chaps).
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