In which you are still leaving

by Robert Ford

Today seems as good a day as any,

contented with its unwanted gift of hours,

its recently-abated rains still singing in the soil.

The air is raw, washed, breathable.

I turn around in it at random angles,

hoping to stumble on the view I’m looking for,

the one which isn’t there, among the

ugly ubiquity of real things, see a horse

in a sour field further along the road,

reaching over to eat from the verges,

its breast scored and bleeding on the wire,

as cars crunch blindly by and disappear.

Spring weeds flower in the spaces between

the mistakes made by people. But you

don’t make mistakes. You make decisions.

You pull open the doors of cabs,

greeting their drivers like old friends,

settle into your seat, staring at tomorrow.