Poem: Unemployed
They ask me what I will do next.
I do not know.
The night is balmy and the sky is honey
and haze and the trees sway in stirring storm.
If I could sleep to any sound
it would be these rustling leaves,
this cricket song.
I say, maybe I will be success.
Maybe I will be money.
Maybe I will be good, again.
Or maybe I will spend a Tuesday
counting the legs of a millipede.
Maybe I will giggle as it climbs my arm,
one foot in front of the other,
in front of the other,
in front of the other.
Maybe I will deliver him softly to the earth,
away from the crush of boots, the sizzling stone.
Maybe I will save a life.