It is definitely an Outdoor Poetry Season kind of day here in Brookland, my cozy neighborhood in Northeast DC, where Pope Francis will arrive one day next week to say or dance (or whatever, pantomime?) a mass at the Basilica about a mile up the street. But he’s not here yet, and I cannot even dimly sense his pending presence. We are moving slowly, but with something like purpose.
I sat down under a tree to write. And wrote a poem and moved on. Now, I’m on the roofed deck built up against the side of our house, listening to Natalie Merchant while I type. Her voice disrupts nothing, seems to deepen the peace. I’m drinking a lambic—a rather unstraightforward sort of raspberry beer—from a small mason jar. It feels almost like today is another birthday and (like old Eben Flood) I’m celebrating in the middle of my crowded all-alone.
This is the poem I wrote earlier:
is coloring this day
started in the a.m. with autumn
but has since veered to the moist heat of summer.
by me, I was gonna sit here in the shade
by the Brookland Metro regardless and wait for the next
surprise to come round the corner where two streets meet square.
It won’t be the Pope
when it comes about
as surprising as yesterday
Wait—that’s tomorrow—but when it comes
I’m expecting a beautiful surprise
with spring in her step
bouquet in her hand
and me on her mind.