Life seems to lack purpose
as I dog sit over at my brother's house.
Out of boredom I pick up magnolia leaves
from the square of lawn in the back.
The leaves are heavy, leathery,
thick, as if made of rubber,
impeding the grass in its greenness.
The dog wants the ball thrown.
Shall I go and water the lilies out front?
Ten minutes every other day.
A glance traded with a neighbor houses away,
a thin blond woman packing a red cooler
for a day somewhere
as I pick up a stranger's dog poop,
day old, dried, from the sidewalk.
The street is quiet.
I've seen her on TV.
This is Washington, DC.

I'll go back over to my place, then shower and shave,
fold a shirt, make a sandwich, for the shift tonight.
Go back and feed the dog, then go to work,
and tomorrow is Memorial Day.
The night, who knows, it could get busy,
with tourists, people off their schedules.
The pollen is high, so I stay in.
I saute some chard from last weeks farmer's market,
not bothering to trim the stalks.
It ends up very bitter,
tasting like poison,
and I throw it promptly away.

Back over at my workshop, my studio,
where I live, and get nothing done,
life's different.  No dog.
I don't travel far.
I'm not doing anything with my life.
I have strange energy and will,
but don't know what to do with it
except worry.
You discover you're an artist,
when you've narrowed down the self.
But still, you wish there was a girl to paint,
to have her model, life, in front of you.