Elegy as a Shopping List
A spider never celebrates
straight, working each day,
turning a sticky stern into orbs,
its body bulbous with
heat. For Sale signs on lawns,
shadows of people inside,
briefly rising, but sinking once
we pass by.
Summer has wounded
the empty beef jerky bag,
erased half of someone’s list near
the gutter, what’s left:
brown, umber, cottage . . .
The mystery is how the list
seems placed with such care,
as one might prop a batch of
lilacs wrapped
in brown paper against
a tombstone. 
Dear P., XXII
Elegy as a Shopping List
Pete