Tara K Shepersky
In the early sun we laced our shoes
donned our hats.
We followed jasmine-scent down streets
of smallish, niceish homes
we can't afford.
Back in our parents' house we toasted bread
the buttery fruit
of neighboring avocado trees, shook salt
and cracked some pepper;
Then the clouds sailed in from the sea
their anchors. Greedily,
we laced our shoes again and climbed aboard,
the scent of ocean.
We asked each other how to find
that really matters.
And failing that, perhaps some benefits?
We shed some soul about
our corporate jobs.
Iceberg roses nodded in our wordwind.
Lantana strewed gold petals at our feet.
We laughed: we're rich!
We weren't being ironic.
Still wearing our hats,
because who can afford
to get cancer
when this stage is chronic?
Tara K. Shepersky is a taxonomist, poet, essayist, and photographer. She makes her present home in Oregon's Willamette Valley, with roots joyfully tangled up in half a dozen soils of America's West. Recent essays, poems, photos, and reviews have appeared in Empty Mirror, Mojave Heart Review, and Sky Island Journal, among others.