Woman with your head wrapped
in a beautiful white turban,
can you hear the
cellular traffic?
Men rebuilding fences,
do you recognize
the lonely neighbor on the
other side?
I drive up alongside
this pole stapled with hearts,
paper cut outs,
and wonder at its meaning.
Were they placed there
one at a time? Or did the family
come back every day to post
a new calling card? Missing
black doberman. Favorite
lake. One eye of a child.
In the restaurant there was an altar.
On it there was a palm-sized rectangle
of green turquoise, a snapshot of a holy
mother, painted cloth, red lotus
on beige canvas. Six or eight prayer
cards in a small basket.
The one that you drew
said you must remember
to not repeat the same mistakes.
I suppose if this were my
message board, I would tack up one
heart on Monday, another on Wednesday,
and so on. I would wave a small invisible
greeting at the hitch-hiking woman with her
head down. And whisper into the ears of
the innocent men.
My card spoke of practice.
