(A poem from 2001 for my friend Zina who took a photo today.)
The Census
He’s having a great time.
The radio announcer explains the historical relevance,
the number of flush toilets, what time you leave for work,
don’t you see, the sewer schemes, the masterminded water,
plotting traffic like a novel of anthills.
Waiting in my car, as inside a toaster,
my tea in the black and chrome cup with the smart plunger lid,
I finish listening; I am polite and happy.
Outside the wind is blossomy;
on this late March morning the street is a marathon of petals,
each separate from its flower, one of a million,
a gesture of unpainted fingernails,
tiny, white and pink steering wheels rolling
up on their edges, a full field uncounted, racing,
racing, racing like water or children running or rushing
,or even racing like nothing,
racing to be the day.
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