tom clausen


a little red
begun in the crown
of the maple…
that reserve of love
I still have left


the sumacs ablaze
along the tracks-
the long freight passes
and over sixty now
I no longer count


in the mall
she catches my eye
and takes my hand
gently massaging
my thumb nail…


after the bookstore
I tell myself silently
I’ll drop a dollar
for the busker
but he’s gone


again this year
the leaves fall
and I watch…
the world as it is
still too much


the day off
and the paths
I could take…
looking up more
of my troubles


despite what 23 years
can do to anyone
our son visits home-
the sun glistening
on fresh fallen leaves


the image of her
remains as a sign
of a certain graciousness
doing something
between a walk and a run…


we drive through
band after band
of hurricane rain;
my wife finally


he is about to be
but in the rain they
exchange vows
before a double rainbow

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