Facing West on the Grid

poem, poems, poetry, writing

I sit on my third floor,

Wooden patio, facing West.

Middle of March.

A new batch of flying black ants

Stretch their summer wings.

They have hatched far off, from

Over where the sun beats me from.

The wind carried them in a cloud

And will carry them further –

Sooner or later.

Dry, hot, sun-bleached concrete,

Middle of March.

A day stolen from July.

Donated by June.

August is asleep.

Your birthday

Is today.

Your answering machine

Is disconnected

As always.

So is my call-

After a few rings .

Over thousands of miles

Of middle of March

Telephone wire

The ants are off now

Riding on the wind and

The charcoal breeze.

My thoughts are off with them


I turn through the rusty screen door.

To refill my coffee.


One thought on “Facing West on the Grid

  1. Ben, this poem gave me the sensation of your wonder at the ongoingness of everything small and large, near and far, and how it is a wonder that one can hold onto anything as life, and the universe, proceed. The poem drives right through to the last word.

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