sometimes it doesn’t seem possible,
and yet it’s more than likely–
in fact it’s the way it is.
I crave a house with big floor-to-ceiling windows I can throw open, built of rough barnwood planks, standing in the middle of a field, in the path of breezes traveling long distance over open ground, scent of clover, scent of long grass roasting and gone to seed under the sun, indian blanketed– but this is my home:
Walking the alleyways afternoons after rain with the <20lb dog, which we talked the landlord into despite a no-dogs policy on the building, snapping photographs of rogue flowers, weeds unscythed, unsprayed thus far into the summer, thistle and wild morning glory, ivy rain-dropleted. I’m crouched, standing on the dog’s leash to keep him from sniffing/digging/eating rat poison and assorted trash, contorted and trying to keep the cameraphone from shaking up my closeup focus, when a suited man seated, bearded, on the train platform says, “What is that, marijuana?”
I jump a bit, look up at him, pausing my finger over the camera shutter, say,”Uh, no– this is deadly nightshade.”
“And this is spearmint.”
Snap a few last shots and pull Floyd away down the alley, quickly past the clump where we saw the tiny baby rabbit yesterday, so miniature and wild brown furred, and in the back entrance to the building’s courtyard and up the stairs to our apartment where no one fires suspicious questions across the public way.