A year for sorry you didn’t
move to a hemisphere
where April would behave but
then she pats your arm with her
cool damp hand and suggests
a nap. Who are you to argue?
Travel with the given season.
Prop your head against the
grimy window close your eyes
doze till the train jolts to a stop
at the edge of Spring. Someone
washed the windows while you slept
this world is one lush sweep of green
and April? April’s walking away
without even a wave and you promise
yourself to be sweeter to her
next year.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 