Wildwood in Spring
Kathy Graber

Late March. I wish it were a better place. Outside the hardware store,
          we discuss its malaise,
                                             kick the curb,
as though it were the tire of a used car. The sky’s a thin blue.
          the color of a small boy’s Easter suit,
                                                                 a dirty cloud patch
at the elbow.
               We’ve got out heads under an old sheet of morning haze,
          and all we see is what we can make out between the weave.
A cold gust off the water blows straight through. We’re already behind.
          Nothing’s bloomed. A few daffodils, exactly right—
their yellow enthusiasms, too common, a little dumb.
                                                                               I say
          it needs a coat of paint because paint can hide a lot. But Dave says
it’s something deeper, and I’m afraid that’s it—
          it’s become the matter of who we are.
                                                                       Every side street
has its flat-roofed, four room motel: Blue Heron, Breezy Court,
          The Compass. Someone’s put a turquoise fifties-styled kitchen set
out for the trash. Kate drives by, stops, and we haul it in.
          The windows of the White Star, pale, unconscious,
                                                                                       are boarded shut.
In a few hours I’ll be stuck in traffic around New York City.
          I don’t want to go. Dereliction—
the tide’s gone out. It’s faithful, and after a storm,
          everything it gives us is broken down. Down
                                                                               and back.
Everything it gives us it resurrects in bits.