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Eastern Interlude - Autumn
by Roberta Feins

He is learning to breast-stroke through the hours.
He fears it may be too late to finish knitting
the red hat he started years ago in grad school.

The heart-shaped leaves of the lilac are a cowardly yellow
and will not hang on much longer. A discouraging word,
and it will be Plop, thunk, and thanks for the organics.

His dilemma is grain or candy. He hasn't the knack
for immortality, neither can he delight in the tambourine
poorly played on the soiled knickers of the cashy-cashy girl.

On the brass tray, haw flakes and bubble gum
are only designed to pinkly please the eye.


 

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