Like Running into Hillary Clinton in the Woods
Some poems just won’t let you go, the way
grief finds you where you least expect it—
in freeway gridlock, for example, or while
watching your kids spin on the Tilt-A-Whirl,
the golden thread of their laughter woven
into sunlight. Some poems, like grief, like anger,
seethe just under the surface of your being,
a Bengal tiger pacing in its cage, its strides
a portent, an omen. Nothing, you believe,
happens for a reason, there is no grand
design or fate, & if that poem really wants
to be written, it will pop out from behind
a tall shrub or tree & shake you just a little,
the way some dreams shake us from sleep.
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[I cleaned out my father’s house after he died…]
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