for James Wright and the gentle wasting of life

a song in a room,
the room
open to the outdoors.

the musician,
a son to
another musician.

the door,
painted
a pale yellow
and open
to the talking of
parking lot ravens.

outside,
there are
mountains and ocean,
eagles and bears.
lots of green trees.

but
i cannot see
any of that,
no,
i see a
painted pale
yellow door
ajar to a
small parking lot.

i hear the talking
of ravens;

i hear the muted
roaring sigh of
passing cars;

i smell cooking food
on the air;

it is Summer and
the breeze is kind.

it is Summer and
a beautiful
young woman
passes by
the window
i sit behind.
she is taut
and lithe in
a well-fitted
red dress.
she is
dream-skinned
and
salmonberry-lipped.
she is aware of
my eyes,
even with hers
behind sunglasses.

i glance at her
and look away.

the cars
continue to pass
on the unseen street,
the air still
smelling of cooked
food.

i could be
nearly anywhere.

i remind myself,
i am here.