Jerry Ball

a long line of cars at Santa Rita Prison … Easter morning rain
	heat of afternoon scrape of a workman’s shovel against the pavement
a chilly night’s walk I can see hollow spaces as houselights go out
	surrounded by fog the sound of muffled footsteps becomes a person
on a hill of weeds a farmer and a whetstone sharpening their scythe
	a grape in each hand conversation continues to go in circles
a small child napping beside toys in the sand pile the afternoon shade …
	A summer evening – in the sunset I must move whenever you  move
financial district pairs of mirrored glasses greeting each other
	the fledgling’s first flight – in spite of encouragement it ends upside down
what at first sounds like agony cries of wild geese
	in front of the line he seems to be the head duck in charge of pure water

 

All poems copyright by Jerry Ball. They may not be used for any purpose without explicit permission.