Stephen Wing

Omens of an Evening

Collecting the omens
of an evening walk—
(man on a leash
waiting for his pet to finish
sniffing at something in the grass—)
I calculate the chances
of your call:  they add
every time to an irrational number,
I am afraid I will forget
how to count back down
(pigeon almost white
swooping down out of half-light
like a soiled dove—)
The wet calligraphy of trees
escapes me, a litter of auguries
along the sidewalk gone
illegible in dusk-puddles, the fixed
constellation of streetlights
not yet lit
(traffic light down
between two mailboxes, blinking
Don’t Walk!  Don’t Walk!
in urgent amber at the sky—)
I stand
straddling it too long
trying to make out a meaning
and almost miss my chance
to cross

(Have I missed
your call?)