WILLIAM E. DUDLEY

right now i remember the old

from times I've
watched them bend over
to smell a rose,
fall straightaway into
the flower bed.
White haired men
who drove full throttle
toward a mailbox,
running it right over . . .
wishing, whistling,
sending a postcard to
another long lost
friend—(rolling around
looking for oxygen).
A remote woman
from 1912 tells me maybe
she hasn't felt
quite right this year . . .
handing the last
of her belongings
to the skeleton of a
flea-infested bellboy.