Poem

Sometimes I write poetry. Here's one:

Mr President, it’s Autumn

The president is in town

But that’s less important to me

Than the sun ringing like a great bronze gong

As it sets in my rearview mirror. The president is back there, too,

Making thousands of enemies as traffic snarls

And cops snarl

And helicopters crawl overhead peering

It seems into every car. But that’s not what I am entranced by.

I’m unable to stop looking at the

Woods on fire with enthusiasm for the coming winter

Wearing every color a leaf can turn.

Cars turn onto the freeway (at last!)

And I pay just enough attention to avoid crashing

Because I can’t quit gazing, looking, staring

At the full moon high in the eastern sky,

A milky silver dollar surrounded by thin, brilliant blue.

Our tame city mountain sits there over the river;

It’s wearing brown and white. Framed by the same

Brilliant blue as the moon, it reflects that copper sun

In the west. Oh, the rest, the president, the entourage, the security –

How can I think of that when the sun and the moon and the trees

Have voted for joy?