No Cups - Pete Richter

From the bottom step, Hunter
does disagree with distance,
“it was created for the romantics.
everyone comes home in
the same clothes they left in -
Pie in the sky” he said.
So I placed a bowl of lemonade
for him and his biped heart.
I invented him
in the Midwest, balancing
on a curve of chalk
looking down at the valleys.
I attached him
to the river and its flow,
the path home.
I can’t correct the light,
its’ dusk partlets at rest and
I encourage the waltz;
listening to the sprig of the windchimes.
Yellow lenses, I am gradual.
Cedar awning, I am my face.
On the bottom step,
a bowl of lemonade is waiting.
So be home before the windchimes are strings,
grazing the eyebrows of evening.