The Wanderer

A Renga: Still warm, 2 a.m.; Deep night is another world, An owl on a branch Seven oak trees in the field And the surrounding grass From the canvas bag, Which she always has with her, She removes her lunch In the cafeteria Of the large office building Janitors clean up Under the light of the moon In the high window Moth wings that are dry as dust Caught in ancient spider webs The collapsing house In a town that the young leave The sound of the wind Sub-freezing temperatures, Ice here and there on the streets "I am tired of this. You always want to argue. You go. I'll stay here." A few petals slowly fall From the blooming apple tree Beside the old farm, In a still rural section Of a mid-west State The wanderer registers At yet another motel