Random Acts of Poetry

Sunday

Today the sun was a verb,
conjugating rays

across my neglected garden,
as if weeds and an afternoon

could be read like a Psalter
full of consolation.

Tonight the sky wears a jacket,
black leather,

and the motorcycle wind
hassles the trees

with a drunken monologue:
"No, not my fault, no no."

Monday will be another white wall
filled with empty frames,

blurred mirrors, shelves offering
vague bric-a-brac.

And the buzzing and ticking
of flies fretting at a pane

above a shattered window.