Day 656 April 19, 2022

Rendered

Every day, 

the grocery store poet said to me. 

Every day I write my list of things to cross off. 

Every day,

 said the car mechanic poet. 

Every day I shape letters out of oil stains on concrete, 

on coveralls, 

on receipts for services rendered. 

Every day, 

the dog walker poet said to me. 

Every day I pick up shit in my bare hands. 

I looked at her with sad eyes. 

The day was wilting slowly, 

like it was uncertain of the time. 

I could smell someone smoking a cigarette 

out behind the cafeteria. 

A large military cargo plane pushed its way 

through a slow sky. 

But I, 

said the dog walking poet, 

was the first one to hear the peepers. 

I could taste the air like a worm tastes the earth. 

Place it on me, the dog walking poet said. 

And I placed the fanged spider upon her curled pate. 

You could do worse than writing poems about dog excrement, 

she said. 

I thought I should call a financial planner. 

My metal tool shed is slowly disassembling itself. 

A poem, she said, could be about compost. 

All the things you did not eat that day.