One is Sorrow by Jim Zola

Service trucks rattle by
ladder topped with tools
on a mission to fix whatever is broken.
I catalog roadside trash,
empty bottles empty wrappers,
each a clue.
I’m wintering
or maybe I just like the term.
Counting the days – one, two, many.
When I get there
I’ll know.

My daughter thinks
dinosaurs passed pilgrims
in the hallway
of extinction.
She thinks I wax
the floors
with a rag of my life.

As kids, we tried to get lost
riding bikes into neighborhoods
beyond the boundaries
our mothers set. There was no

particular darkness then.
Just dogs yapping at our heels
as we pedaled like hell
towards the next block.

The body
belongs to no one. My life is orbed by death’s
dark moons. Ring tones turn ominous.
When I die, play gypsy music,
violin and cimbalom.

This morning
while merging onto Wendover Ave,
I watched a Cooper’s hawk
thunk to earth ungraceful
in the overgrown median
in pursuit of something I couldn’t see.

Later crows took over.
One is sorrow.
One foot stuck in a dead squirrel’s guts.

Jim Zola has worked in a warehouse, as a security guard, in a bookstore, as a teacher for Deaf children, as a toy designer for Fisher Price, and currently as a children’s librarian. Published in many journals through the years, his publications include a chapbook — The One Hundred Bones of Weather (Blue Pitcher Press) — and a full length poetry collection — What Glorious Possibilities (Aldrich Press). He currently lives in Greensboro, NC

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