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
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