Haiku 38

Thursday happy hour tabletop, sticky with beer a saint, undisturbed

Bus driver, stone-faced under a handlebar ‘stache lets the cyclist live

Power, knowing that you never get this moment to regurgitate

“I am still freezing” from Tolstoy’s summation of his Russian winter

That someone would come along but no, really you have to save yourself

Seahawks umbrella shredded in spikes by the storm then the wind steals it

The can tumbles west the wind blows it back uphill a boy’s first memory

I sprout my father’s grin his sad smile upon my face when it all goes wrong

Lone crow with acorn ignores its murder across from the pot clinic

No one notices as I brush the moth beneath the neon “OPEN”

A smaller moth darts through that left front burner coil one pot on to boil

Black bird on red ball fifty feet out in Green Lake preening for balance

To dirty our hands on this salutorious sticky universe

Bright but cold, again Steam escaping a laundry First day of autumn

Gave myself credit for the light burning upstairs but that’s mostly luck

Water from the well oscillating in its pail summer’s shortest night

I want to believe droplets slouching for the drain oblige all I ask