Return to Want
BY JEFFREY DIETER
Tuesday afternoons this November,
considering the yellow to green gradations
of evergreen needles,
I scuff dry leaves until reaching the market.
White-haired men and women clog the analgesic aisles
or argue with the meat-man over naked brisket.
I hover in the solace of the salad bar--
bruised spinach leaves and halved pears
out of heavy syrup caught in green JELL-O.
Securing the plastic clam shell with a rubber band,
the cashier smiles at me smiling at him.
“I am young,” I think,
navigating between the nosing cars towards the park.
The public lawns are alive.
Squirrels circle the garbage pails then dive,
emerging with bread ends and empty doughnut bags.
I find a bench where I can tune my feet to the sun;
munch my string-bean salad and cottage cheese.
I could be the secretary to someone’s
tomorrow morning,
an orchid in my hair,
steno pad balanced on my knees.
I’d be the keeper of the honey jar,
content to drink spiced tea from the dish
of a man’s mouth.
Tuesday afternoons this November,
considering the yellow to green gradations
of evergreen needles,
I scuff dry leaves until reaching the market.
White-haired men and women clog the analgesic aisles
or argue with the meat-man over naked brisket.
I hover in the solace of the salad bar--
bruised spinach leaves and halved pears
out of heavy syrup caught in green JELL-O.
Securing the plastic clam shell with a rubber band,
the cashier smiles at me smiling at him.
“I am young,” I think,
navigating between the nosing cars towards the park.
The public lawns are alive.
Squirrels circle the garbage pails then dive,
emerging with bread ends and empty doughnut bags.
I find a bench where I can tune my feet to the sun;
munch my string-bean salad and cottage cheese.
I could be the secretary to someone’s
tomorrow morning,
an orchid in my hair,
steno pad balanced on my knees.
I’d be the keeper of the honey jar,
content to drink spiced tea from the dish
of a man’s mouth.
JEFFREY DIETER was born in Baltimore, Maryland. He began writing poetry at the age of 13 as a way to cope with the sudden and violent death of his father. For him, writing poetry was both cathartic and a means of escape. But Jeffrey wanted to expand his writing abilities beyond the confessional/personal. He attended Goucher College in Towson, Maryland, in order to study with the poet Elizabeth Spires. Spires taught him the rules of poetic form and the importance of bending and breaking those rules to create poetry that was new and intriguing. After graduation Jeffrey moved with his partner to the island of Oahu where he continues to write poetry.