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
