A crow waits in the top of a tree
for the racoon to leave its dead mate
in the road. The bird shifts a claw
on its branch and chestnuts fall.

I am at a window on the third floor
of an old house. I have just read
a poem I wrote ten years ago. I like it.

In town only the old men on street
corners discuss the history of spring.
Downstairs in the master bedroom
my wife and youngest daughter sleep.
One flight further down the television
kills two hours until the evening news.