I love walking around the neighborhood
at evening time,
and watching the way
with lit cigarettes in their mouths
work on their yards,
unaware of their wives right behind them
about to spray them with the hose…
And the way the two older ladies, with their fluffy dogs, stop talking when we walk by
(as if their secrets are worth keeping)…
And the weiner dogs:
who, I learned today are named Spike & Winny
with the hippy owners
who meticulously planted
one lonely azalea
in the corner of their lot…
And the black guy,
with his black lab,
and his hip-hop shorts
And I make sure I say hi,
just so he knows,
I’m not one of those white people…
“That sounds like a poem,” my husband says to me from the closet,
(when I tell him this after walking the dog one June night).
“It is a poem,” I say.
“By who?”he says.
“By me,” I say.
“Then it must be good, ” he says…
And because I am a fool
and for this world,
I write it down.