Still drowsy at the breakfast table,
still staring at the stop sign by
the drive. A crow—perhaps a fable—
laboriously lands nearby
to peer at seed or single worm.
A couple holding coffee mugs
walks briskly past the tilted sign.
His jacket’s skewed, her smile’s smug.
Disturbed, the bird—you know the line—
skedaddles to a tree, pecan.
Two shaggy men with tangled hair—
their cigarettes in crooked fingers—
then stride along without a care.
Next a square-faced toddler lingers
as still as oak along the verge.
The ground is drenched, cement’s still wet.
Last night there was a rain, no doubt.
The neighbors left their stroller out.
It’s ruined now. Too late to fret,
so let the cautious crow hop down.
Greg Huteson’s poems have appeared in or are forthcoming from Modern Age, The Honest Ulsterman, the Alabama Literary Review, Better Than Starbucks, the Saint Katherine Review, Orbis, and various other journals.