Doug Ramspeck
There is a deal you strike with your
own body to arrange itself like bones.
The parade of awakening
each morning, each self proclaiming
itself as yesterday’s, each day
looking down at its own ancient hands
though asking no one
for bright bouquets of coins.
There is too much coming and going:
this parade of opening
your eyes, dragging on your pants,
looking out windows. The stucco
ceiling that keeps you company,
the memories of childhood fields that rub
against your body like a cat.
Years have passed and yet this band
strikes up, and all of us are marching
down the streets, and our legs
are moving in a dream beneath
the private music of this sunlight.