from Reservoir

One branch from a tall bush

waves at me from the edge of the window frame,

desperately, like someone’s trying

to carry it away.

The wind a constant whine

and clouds expectorate.


We are terrible:

in good weather,

we steal the crippled

neighbor’s lemons.

We take the ones that hang

over our driveway; certainly

the wheelchair-bound man

could not pick them if he tried,

and besides,

they are so small and fresh

and pungent.


Ting tong

chingle clatter

sing sob



We steel crippled lemons against

the mechanical man.

He clicks from the drive,

eyes wild for their

pungent breath.

Hang him sideways!

He does not deserve

their small,

terrible rinds.


The wind chimes next door

hate the wind.

It makes them dance and sing,

crazy, crazy.


Sometimes I think we should leave

the crippled neighbor a note

for his lemons, a la William

Carlos Williams.

But really, a poem is no substitute

for lemons nor for the cold sweet

plums that you had anticipated

for breakfast.