LIFE IS LIKE A PARACHUTE

I park my car around the corner
and walk down your street one last time
and I want: a pink wind, blue angels
rows of mourners in black uncomfortable clothing
mirrors covered with clean sheets
and heavy carpets over all the windows.


I want the world blind like my stubborn heart.
I want women who mourn and men who cater to them
children who worry with black eyes full of wonder.
I want jazz. I want Bach. I want to cry
a single trumpet that bends every note
along the crescent of your brown street.


But I stand alone in your morning garden
and listen to your prayer of rose, sermon of rain,
and know--with you, I was a better person.
Here, I hear again your warm warning to me:
Life is like a parachute. It protects you.
It betrays you. Still, you must jump.