Lost in Queen Anne
7 October 2005 | Brett | Poems
There are walnuts or chestnuts or
the Puget Sound equivalent
lying in the streets of Queen Anne
in early October being collected
by Goretexed Asian seniors, women mostly,
using sticks or canes and orplastic bags
On each block a yardman and
dogs with their people - old men
or young women, never paired -
and Washingtonians who ask for directions
and an elegant woman, her gray hair bobbed
standing at a second floor window
who retreats into the room when she
realizes I’m returning her gaze, a shiny
Mercedes in her driveway looking cold and ignored
With its twists and sculptures and views, Kerry Park is a
site, the rumor of Ranier, the foot traffic, grand where
Bhy Kracke Park is gentle, a tickle in the throat