So does Dlugos. I’m no poet like them, so attention is not a word for me.
Driving, looking, yesterday I noticed piles filling the roadside,
stacks of chairs lopped onto cardboard and wooden beams,
multiple piles of metal scraps, and
they recurred, over and over they recurred,
punctuating the road across miles,
monuments of junk, as if arranged.
Sometimes, forgetfully, the days pass as daydreams,
as plans, as days and events collected,
captured and pocketed.
I missed the blood moon at 3:00 AM last night. Julie did not miss it.
I spent my time dreaming. I have seen a lunar eclipse many times before.
I wonder about those who stays awake.
I wonder about Julie, watching, losing sleep,
for a moon turned red in a moment, then back.
My roadside sculptures have been hauled.
My commute looks clean.
What will I do when these monuments do not last,
but conjur a little dream?