A Poem On A Monday

Let me start with some photos I shot over the weekend...

 This is my reminder that I should always avoid trying to pick out cards for people and just go with blank ones, because they're filled with the cheesiest quotes like the one I found on this mug. Every time I read the likes of this I cringe... There is a whole heck of a lot of junk in the world.

 Lets see, IA PUNK is also a Scentsy dealer. Of course! The duality of people cracks me up.

 Last night I went to the Trampled By Turtles show put on by Wooly's on Locust St. This is the opener--William Elliot Whitmore, a Southeastern Iowa boy and a damn fine songwriter, singer, and banjo player. He was incredible--hope to catch him playing again soon.

And here's Trampled By Turtles. Fantastic energy and show. The view wasn't so bad either...

And now for the poem of the day. I was inspired to write this when I lived in Green Bay and used to walk the dog down to the river every morning. Quite often I would see a woman leaning on her car by the railroad tracks clearly dressed for work. She just stood there sipping her coffee and looking around as though she was in a cloud of thought and the only way she could see clearly was to take that time every morning. Here it goes:

Taking Stock

Maybe she lost something—a shoe, her cat,

or the last good thought she had was here

by the tracks, a dead end road, a stitch of trees.

Every morning she collects here—

parks her car and leans on the trunk sipping

coffee and watching no one come.

Some days a train will pass and she can’t help

but feel rescued, how it catches and stirs in her chest.

She wishes to be full but there’s a leak

somewhere, a fleeing breath, thinks if she locks herself

in abandonment, an empty street, she will be whole.

In five minutes she will quit, drive to work

at some office and all day pretend to be alive,

making small talk about weather and restaurants,

a recipe for apple pie.  All of it true and all a lie.

But she has this distinction, and the world is something right

when a woman like this knows she’s drowning

and arranges meetings,

anchors her day to this struggle for breath

among molting trees and a no outlet sign.

All her own.

Casey Lord