No fairytales, no green riffs to get me through,
just a headache from speculation’s
ingrown halo, a pair of sore feet, and high
in bare oak branches a fog that looks
white-hot because it’s got
the sun as hostage. Walking
back to work from lunch
I duck into a drugstore: in the aspirin aisle
a withered woman has the air
of a fisherman who’s lost
a keeper, a mackerel flashing away
from the visible bait
and invisible line. Let her turn
and tell me, closing her eyes with pleasure,
our long lives are part of a legend.