When a City Sleeps

                        (for mom and her 65th)

 

When Denver sleeps at the snow hour,
everyone is a spelunker.

At dawn, the nuns walk Cheesman Park
scooping for lost rosaries.

The lone jogger in the woods kicks
for a memory.

A police officer digs for a sleeping bag.

The maples flag people for some sugar.

Lorca, where is my bridge?

 

Published in Quarter After Eight, Spring 2013