Autumn lament

(Idaho, September 2024)


After the street-sweeper is gone
and the dump truck passes
and the hot girl walks by.
After a brown pickup accelerates into the turn.
For one moment 
it is silent.

Except for the trees, 
they are gigantic paper windchimes.
The static hum of autumn.
My mind is rustling too.

I am grumbling to myself 
about how I hate to wear socks
and shoes
and use punctuation. 

For one minute I try
to calculate how many yellow leaves 
are shaking in the bent aspen
that leans over my porch.
I add math to the list, after punctuation.

Innumerable yellow teardrops.
A chaos, a symphony,
a busker with no tin can.
I find other words that mean yellow
in case I change my mind,
ochre, gold, amber, saffron, honey.

My dog is throwing up in the wildflowers
next to the broken fence.

Five more trucks howl past,
clunking and groaning
rushing to end the work week.

The drivers will go home
to women who love them.
They will take off their pants and lie down.