In the Exotic Heart of a Walk

It’s not a matter of sneaking.

Just skirt the plastic fence,

popsicle-orange in a bath of sun.

Cross the parking lot,

where crows peck at bare sand.

Past the rail-bridge and through the bushes,

a door of air opens.

You walk a footpath­—gravelly grey—

not a road, not brick yellow.

Wind wiggles and flusters the river, which roars,

or perhaps that’s the highway.

Blackberry arms reach from the hedges

with bracelets of fat ripe sweetness.

All the trumpets on the vine

play lavender tunes,

while the Great Blue Heron

curls his pretzel yogi neck.

You would walk forever

but cigarette smoke is blowing into your face

from the window of a slick white truck

and you’re back in a parking lot

till next time.