A Found Poem And A Poem About Finding
“At the age of forty-eight
On the verge of divorce, Rita left
An elegant life in LA to follow
Her dream.” I read these words
On the back cover of the library book
I just checked out on my lunch break.
Fall leaves crunch beneath my sand-colored clogs
As the line echos “Rita left …
To follow her dream …” What is my dream?
I ask my self. What is my dream? I ask the book.
What is my dream? I ask the leaves
That scatter to reveal the hairy black legs
Of an over-sized fly, plastic, grounded — Odd
I think as I walk past. “Excuse me,” the fly
Calls out. “You asked a question. Aren’t you going to listen
To the answer?” What can I do? I retrace my steps
Palm the fly, place it on the edge of my desk
When I return to work. “Okay,”
I say. “I’m listening.”