Wealth from Issue 57
I sense brown winter stares from the woods,
then pairs of eyes appear.
Shoulder to shoulder, the book-end deer lean in the brambles.
Above, a red-tailed hawk, talons out,
living in mid-air, treads the breeze,
something scurrying beneath the grass.
The Year of the Rat is one way of looking at the month ahead,
ancient augury of money: rodents’ numbers swollen
signaled granaries of plenty.
Now, hawk ascending signals
the life of one mouse extended, and I move on
to catch my afternoon plane
where seated beside me at take-off
is a man who instantly shares
postcards of his Truckdriver Poetry,
and then invites me to ass anything I like
to his list of WHY I LOVE AMERICA.
That, he says, is the title of his new collection,
poems so good they’ll make him rich.
He nods, his head bobs up and down,
and the plane’s wheels clunk back into its belly.