Jerry Ball
a long line of cars
at Santa Rita Prison …
Easter morning rain
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heat of afternoon
scrape of a workman’s shovel
against the pavement
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a chilly night’s walk
I can see hollow spaces
as houselights go out
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surrounded by fog
the sound of muffled footsteps
becomes a person
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on a hill of weeds
a farmer and a whetstone
sharpening their scythe
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a grape in each hand
conversation continues
to go in circles
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a small child napping
beside toys in the sand pile
the afternoon shade …
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A summer evening –
in the sunset I must move
whenever you move
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financial district
pairs of mirrored glasses
greeting each other
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the fledgling’s first flight –
in spite of encouragement
it ends upside down
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what at first
sounds like agony
cries of wild geese
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in front of the line
he seems to be the head duck
in charge of pure water
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All poems copyright by Jerry Ball. They may not be used for any purpose without explicit permission.
