You know, I was transporting twenty pounds of chicken. I was strong enough. I picked them up,
freshly cut and packed, from 103rd and Broadway. My school subway pass could take me pretty
much anywhere in the city, so my mom had me pick up the chickens on my way home from
school in Chelsea.

February creeps into March.
Ground thaws but wind picks up the chill.
And drizzle is just snow in a gray disguise.

I know that my neighbor hates me
But she would never admit it—
It’s the way she compliments
My flowerbeds that I know it,
The way she applauds my blooms
Every spring, the way she hums
Through my barberry’s thorns

There is something about the sound
the crash of the waves off-shore
the roll and the roil
and the whisper of a wave’s ending
that draws the sea-guest to where the sea begins.