-why did the poem-writer cross the road-

growing increasingly concerned with social distancing,
yet finding the work in progress pedestrian, I’ll cross the street
to ask the guy in the little grey house what his poems are about;

do dreams come in to play. what makes them tick?

I drew unsubstantiated conclusions from seeing him mowing,

raking and shoveling during the three heaviest seasons when

the landscape needs tending.

his interior lights go on toward dusk like clockwork, and
I've noticed, without being nabbed in the act, framed
photos resting on a mantelpiece with others hanging
on a wall like certificates of award to the man of the month.

he hasn't been cooking out, although the small, circular
barbecue grill stands waiting, its half-moon lid
locked-down to the cold ash. It's a dark, dark moon, and

once upon every week, large plastic bags are carried out;

black, opaque, arthritic-like nodules bulging from the innards,

listing unceremoniously at the curbstone.

blood-red ribbon ties, knot the openings, keeping the bags tight-
lipped, their secrets stuffed inside. I'll cross the road

to knock at his door to seek the answer to the age old

poets' inquiry of:–– "what’s what"?