N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 0

 

 

BOB RIXON

 

 

Like A Weed

 

In the morning the crumbs were gone,

a dozen birds chirping in the tree

by the parking lot, a woman

yelling at her child to get ready

for school,

            one truck after another

rattling as it hit the pothole

on the bridge, a beach towel

crumpled on the fire escape

it had been there all winter.

 

A daffodil leaning in a plastic cup

on the kitchen table, plucked from

a patch of dirt by a fire hydrant

the night before.