There, arms crossed in Cape Cod:
blue fir trees
and the old border collie
who looks for a ball
before it’s thrown.
seemed distant already.
Here, camping by the river:
half a dozen kids
biting into barbecued burgers
squinting at cricket under the annexe
wind whipping the tide around their earlobes.
Please, paper my tray:
until it’s scuffed and scattered
with a thousand stubs of pastels
oil sunk deep into my pores
flakes of purple, olive, apricot and chocolate
ground forever in my thumbprints.
Rewrite, postcards from my amygdala:
to crowd the doorstep
of a nest
that will never be truly
Being, now with you all here:
my bones will always
be brim full
with dry elbows, sandy banter
bare brown toes.
Response to visual meditation on “Cape Cod Evening’, Edward Hopper, image Courtesy National Gallery of Art Washington.