Noah on First and Commercial

A weathered man sits on his ankles.

One good eye looks sideways

at traffic upstream, the other is

clouded over with cataract.

The cigarette is a fragment, a remnant

plucked-up from concrete, saved

from trampling feet. Under

a dripping awning he waits

for the 20: filled with character, unreliable;

an accordion ark that rolls down the safe,

but damp Drive to Hastings. Above

the crows return unburdened.

Fall Colors

Like Gatorade—unnatural

aqua water surrounded autumn

yellows and reds scattered

up powder sugar-coated

mountains cuddling a shy glacier.

A small fish struggles on its side

at the surface—youth displayed:

vertical diamonds, iridescent spots

twinkle in the diffused sun trickling

down. Round and round. Then

revived. Into the depths, invisible for a moment.

Then white belly drifting to the clouds. Bearing

witness means clumsy theology applied like

toddler's experiment: how do star blocks fit

triangle holes? Mysteries: rapture or fall?

Is this Normal?

My new GoreTex jacket

hangs in the coat closet,

a handsome grey with

green trim: a silver fox

waiting for rain.

The forecast is near 20

and dry. I check

the active wildfires in BC,

scroll-down the page,

wonder:

what a hectare is,

how big is a half-million,

why metric still feels foreign,

who was still worried,

is this normal?

200 dollars

for a bike rack—

from Germany, comes with

a 30 year warranty.

Still. . .

A sunny day in October:

the man with a snake and quick gait

walks past the coffee shop

that just ran out of cold-brew.

In Las Vegas: 50+ shot dead

with two dozen guns modified to be

automatic—politicians offer prayer

for victims, congress considers

a law legalizing silencers.