The Creek that Calls the ENE Boundary of Hillsdale

Forty-five years ago we'd panic
at the sight of rain
how it made the tables rise
and who'd have to stay up how late
mop floors.








Today the creek where
it's called the lake warms
four-five birds at least.
We park our rusted
bikes and lie down.

We speak to the lake as we would
to passers-by who say
pardon? and walk on.

Doesn't take much sky just the one hill,
the rest pause of water
let's say.

The GHD, Step Four

Move into an empty place and fill it (oops, can't say fill ). Dig emptiness. Wait before you haul up that futon you've been storing, that rocker, those tubs. Be pleased--you've figured out how to store your bed out of sight during daylight, you've ditched the ex-door that was your desktop, you've gone through your personal archive with a shredding eye (and donated the shreds to a furniture store on Broad for use as stuffing for the very storage ottoman you're thinking of buying--well done!). And look, you've lost 19 pounds.

When the space was empty you could stretch your body everywhere and not touch baseboard. Your mat became a slim boat in a windy sea, the nearest window miles away. Facing 80-year-old light fixtures from directly below, you saw future in furniture, budget permitting.

Anything in the store, said the guy at the high-end furniture store today, waving at two long racks of fabric samples, you can get in any of those.