A Park in Paris

Grey skies, grey water
in canals.
Bare branches turning
the barest of green
and pink-

Chase the pigeons children,
while the old people watch,
seated in their wicker chairs.

Bicycles, carts,
and unleashed dogs,
birds
I cannot name
above toothy rowhouses
leaning into one another-

Warm breezes,
light rain-
Spring in the park.

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poem by Ayn Timmerman
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Sometimes I Can Hear the Confusion and Sorrow

The television buzzes and pops
and the dishes loom in their piles
while the dog looks up from
her empty water dish,
the laundry is folded in sorted piles
yet to be claimed by the household,
and the internet is on
so nobody calls,
and under the three remaining bulbs
a yellow light is cast,
thrown among crusty plates,
and the papers are spread out
in categorized piles to show
if we can afford to just throw away
the spaghetti hardening in the pot,
while the cat yowls at the doorknob,
but nobody hears
over the sound of things falling apart
while the television drones on
about tornadoes.

poem by Ayn Timmerman
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