Crimsons

Bobolinko packs
his basket with fried chicken,
croutons, lime-aid, cherry pie
and a Big Boy tomato, finds
a private spot by the river,
where oaks and maples
have a quiet leaf chat.
It’s delicious
to sit alone,

but with trees you’re never
fully alone. Dusk
crimsons the fading edge
of a leafy afternoon.

    Bobolinko Enters Heaven – and Leaves

I climb to what I think
must be a door to the lowest floor
of Heaven. At the top step, I knock,
expecting a place of great joy,
the moment at a surprise party
when everyone yells surprise—only
this moment lasts forever.

What I see is Las Vegas.
Casino streets. Ice sculptures
challenge the desert to a duel.
My Uncle Torvald who had died
when I was seven has two women
by him. He puts money down
to spin a roulette wheel,
doesn’t even wave.

I return to the ground
where neighbors sit
in air-conditioned houses
with humming nukers
and clattery ice makers.