February Poem

A frumpy truck makes a clang bomb
out of a big garbage bin out front. Greensleeves
is on the radio, no one knows who wrote it.
My aluminum desk is cool to the touch.
For an instant everything feels green and tingly.
Maybe I need to organize something or
rifle through some old papers or order
new checks. Maybe not. A Bermuda High is looming
over Brooklyn so the weather allows
you to literally put your hand in it.
I would like nothing more than a light
feeling that would allow me to put down
this cumbersome basket of memories
long enough to dance across the room
or sleep through an entire night.
There are 10 pillows on my sofa and 12
books on the coffee table. It is 6:13 A.M.
soon I will walk down 6 flights of stairs
and pick up a long blue bag with the NY Times
all black and white and neatly folded inside.