Clover and Alone

Clover

There is a very gentle
sign of life
in the straightening
of a trampled grass blade.
It makes one feel calm
to lay face down in the park
and watch.
Though lying face down
in a park tends
also to fill a certain void.

When I see a four-
leafed clover plucking
its way through the Bermuda grass,
I can’t stand to pick it
recklessly, but instead
choose to lay alongside,
with arms and legs
akimbo as though
I am a clover too,
in need of picking.
“If you take me home
I will bring you
good luck” – though
my ploy has yet
to work
with women or God.
I suppose I don’t
fit easily on the palm
or ever in the pocket
next to a pale rabbit’s foot.

My elderly neighbor
seeds the brown ground
in the green mélange
we now know as décor.
I cannot
live freely among
my moss and weeds
when he diverts
the sag of his eyes toward me,
the whinging plastic whip
making circles
of decimation near the fence.

© 2011 David B. Crawford

Alone

There is something fantastic
about being in the house alone;
The wife gone to Spokane
to visit her sister, and I,
alone in bed writing poetry.
I could stay up all night watching movies,
or paint the ceiling in the livingroom,
(though it would be better
if the wife actually saw
this happening) or I could,
if I really wanted, sleep
until I thrash around the bed
trying to stay under.

When I’m alone
I always think of burglars;
breaking in and silencing the dog
with a pat on the head,
and my job being to run them off.
If I am alone
I have no need
to run them off
but instead can jump
out my screenless window
drop the three feet to the grass
and run away in my underpants;
A simple solution to a complex problem.
Why else does one carry
insurance on a house?
A television will only get bigger
when replaced.
It’s a winning situation
both for the burglar and me,
if only my wife will be gone
long enough to find a trustworthy person
to do the job.

© 2011 David B. Crawford