It is not much to stand on the corner
Across from the smell of the bakery
And know each one of the cracks
Underfoot like an unchanging friend.
Then I can see that the blonde
In the white French rabbit coat
Walking the piebald Afghan
Is no bigger a deal than she actually is.
Further along the street, the bartenders
Are just opening up with a practiced
And sour grace. A woman is shaking
A green rug from the second story.
A motorcycle explodes from the light,
Snapping my head around. The cycle
And the cyclist are pure.
A simple sentence. Noun and verb.
The light again turns red as I go up the hill
Past leather shop, bookstore, gelateria.
When I reach the top, it is not much
To stand with the sky around your ears
Like a blue helmet, like something
Very close to triumph.
A graduate of the University of Arkansas, Franz Baskett's poems have appeared in the Southern Review, The New Orleans Review, Poem, and The Pacific Review among others. He resides in Fayetteville, AR.
