There are certain weekends and holydays
when I feel myself somewhat insecure.
I worry whether walking ghosts have occupied
the void of empty streets and closed doors,
looking at me as an intruder or suspicious
on their ways.
I miss hearing the sound of hammers and
hoes, the strident come and go of saw blades,
the brushing of pens on paper or keyboards
being typed throwing feelings over the world.
I love the imprecations of painters and artists
when they can’t find the pure art they look for.
I love children screaming through the sidewalk,
running endless races only they are capable of.
I love the noise of people on streets and alleys,
corners and places,
jointly seeking to move the hard wheels of time.
I love hearing someone making something,
even if it is the buzzing of bees.
Published in TreeHouse Arts, Sept. 6, 2017.