Poem #184
Untitled #6
There are so many chipmunks
playing despite the steady rain
in this part of the woods, cars too
and long black stripes of pavement.
Along the water the ducks still land
as they have for so many years,
but now they dine on bread.
I love the smell of wet leaves.
Maybe the part of me that hungers,
for meat and cookies and peace, knows
deep down what this damp matter will become
when it decays.