A Found Poem And A Poem About Finding

(with a wink and a nod to my sister who knows the art of 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.”

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