Jack Ridl is in My Mind

Umph.  A big sigh.  Gentle
flit of the hand before resting down
on the arm of the couch.  Slumped

into strong but quiet talk.  Snow
rain, birds, green plants, specific
flowers.  The foul line, a sandwich

and a clown.  Don’t try too hard or
at least don’t show it.  Let the poem
find itself, reveal, coax, wriggle,

whatever.  Let’s have some coffee
stare out the window.  Notice the
light dust like it was bright paint

splattered on your windshield.  Your
grandfather’s hands.  Spring.  Scrubs.
Shrubs.  Circus seasons, basketball
seasons between the seasons.  Notice.