In the pine grove by the cemetery
there was a stick. It was four feet long,
not thick. At once, I picked it up
and carried it to the gate, downhill
over the needles and leaves, wet from a Nor'easter--
all rain, since it was warm. As I placed
my feet, I thought to myself about those
who hike with ease. Is it skill or fortune
that allows them to place their feet?
Skill or fortune? I thought these words
in a rhythmic march, as I went on my way.
Once through the gate and on the street,
I became aware that I was carrying a stick.
Well, it wasn't that I didn't know that I was
carrying a stick, but suddenly I saw the stick
as weapon. Is it skill or fortune?
I tipped my hat to a couple doing yard work,
who had stopped when they saw me.
They greeted me. I greeted back.
"Nice evening for November?" They agreed.
I was past them, already, with my stick.
Odd, they might have thought, that somebody
should carry a stick and speak to them. Is it skill
or fortune? Then, I saw an old woman walking up the hill--
Tower Street, and like a fable, she was crooked
and walked with a cane. I moved to touch
my cap to be polite then thought: I have a stick
and she's afraid of me. Is it skill or fortune?
What could I do with this stick? I could move
suddenly and just as fast be criminal.
Did I really just think that violence?

11/20/2009

Posted on 11/20/2009
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