THE HAT

 

Today the wind rushes up, seemingly

from the other side of the world,

not even tired from the journey,

barely pausing to consider the withered

leaves from last fall, or the plastic

chairs it tosses to the littered sidewalk;

it takes your favorite hat without apology

as if in celebration of itself, drags it

through the grocery store parking lot,

slowing just long enough to keep

you chasing, your hat turning and tumbling

mindlessly out into the busy street,

as you continue to follow, the world

around you fading, your awkward body

bent low to the ground, arms

reaching out for this one small thing,

one small piece of familiar, that you

suddenly fear you may never touch again.

BALLET CLASS ABOVE FRATTALLONE'S HARDWARE STORE

 

Copper pans and kettles rattle

beneath the clamor of dancer's feet,

a measured stampede rising

and falling, seemingly directionless,

from a distance we cannot quite fathom.

Step into the warm summer afternoon

and you can hear the upright piano

plunking out the same five or six notes

through the large open windows,

emphatic and out of tune, demanding

grace as if it were simply a matter

of mathematics, the seemingly endless

counting of steps and motion,

breathe and leap, and breathe again.

Look up and you can just make out

the arms of the young students,

reaching out like thin new branches,

then joining together above their heads

like a dozen orbs of sunlight

held against the dusty window glass.

We applaud from the white sidewalk below,

continuing in our separate directions;

our own steps for a moment somehow

lighter, our shoulders held back

as if by an unseen hand, blood-warm,

familiar, gentle as the breeze.