301 Moved Permanently

301 Moved Permanently


At The Curb On Graveley Street

Dominic tells me dandelion leaves are best
picked before the yellow flowers go to seed,
before their grey globes blow off with cotton-
wood pollens, pollution and dust. He pinches
a sprig from the full basket on his red walker.
I smell only creosote from the telephone pole.
“You have to wash each leaf, boil, rinse, change
the water, boil and wash again. Stir in garlic,
chickpeas, parmesan and pasta. What could
be better? Open windows. Ventilate!” Across
the street, Marcello ties a bouquet of calla lilies
to the cherry tree where Maria died. A black
truck. Rain at dusk. He cried with so much of
his body. Still, years later, he works the garden
to feed four families. This morning, he found
handfuls of mushrooms up at the park to mix
with lettuce larger than a large person’s head.
Dominic says, people move through this city
as if it were a machine. He shakes my hand
into a tight fist. Two doors up, Ting-Mie ties
together broken hockey sticks into an obelisk
for her broad beans. I wave to her and wonder
how much exhaust has blown into the house.

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