by Bruce Taylor
Afterwards, they’re too used to it all
to weep anymore in a parking lot
at such a normal thing as parting,
birds coming or going, all the trees
putting off or on their leaves.
There’s the usual weekend errands,
he gets kitty litter and light bulbs,
she salmon and trash‑bags. What they are
expected to bring home and what they do.
Then there’s the left turn and the right,
the predictable nature of the antipodal,
while the lights in every direction,
at every intersection blink their easy advice—
to stop or go or to proceed with caution.
Bruce is the author of eight collections of poetry, including The Longest You’ve Lived Anywhere: New & Selected Poems 2013 and editor of eight anthologies including Wisconsin Poetry (Wisconsin Academy of Science, Arts & Letters), and with Patti See, Higher Learning, (Prentice Hall 3rd ed.) 2011.
His poetry and translations have appeared in such places as Able Muse, The Chicago Review, The Columbia Review, The Cortland Review , The Formalist, Literary Salt, Light, The Nation, The New York Quarterly, The Northwest Review, Poetry, Rattle, Rosebud, Slow Trains, Verse Wisconsin, Your Daily Poem and on Writer’s Almanac.