(Poem of the Week)
A March morning, taunting
with light at play, dancing
Cigarette smoke spirals
with currents of wind.
The horizon beckons
welcoming Sunday rising
pretty maidens
out from hiding
Sleepy eyes opening
to the sparkle of a child's grin.
I pull out into the street
past prick painted sign
about poverty—
a need to be kind.
In this community
The churchgoers stroll
in beautiful clothes
a formal time
this day, this week.
I continue my drive
past golden walk signs
that stand beneath the trees—
Cast iron doorways
and vacant lots lead
to the corner
above the tunnels
echoing out about
the wet debris.
Ahead, a man selling
newspapers wrapped in plastic
I wisp past dormant branches
turn my radio in tune—
soft soul music soothes
The earth whispers
warm wind cools
the church bells ring
the gospel grooves.
The trees cast their patterns
across cracked pavement
hued with tar stains.
My tires splash through—
I exit the city
by way of the current
the interstate guiding
to wherever I choose.
—Cori Lark
V-9 Morning After Union Station
Corina © 2007
Photo by Quang Vuong
