Why would I not stop and gaze
on the sidewalk beside the orthodox church
as the Sunday morning faithful file inside
You are my sunshine, you write on a sticky note
and leave it on a bag of peppered jerky on my desk.
For years I’ve toiled,
I’ve worked the earth.
Well, I’ve worked on the earth,
pushing a mower over
a puny patch of grass.
Conspiring with my audience
in suspended disbelief, I twitch my legs
and jerk my head and blink away tears.
Seldom a day passes that I don’t see the moon.
Hanging by its point amid a field of faint stars
or glowing audaciously over a cluster of
cottonwoods on a sunwashed afternoon.