Nicole Zdeb

Day of Diminishing Returns

Most pictures of today
have blue in them, a dusty blue
blue moss and winter ivy, blue fern,
blue branches and blue shadows,
crushed cans and Ramen cups and cheap
bubbly bottles caught in the blue arborvitae,
archaeological droppings from recent ruins,
and the ever blue homeless who push grocery carts
as dusk scatters blue light over their bodies.

Later, ambling home in the indigo night,
in a fine mist, giddy drunk
I lobbed a hello to a ragged woman
as, head-down, she clanked
her cart against the asphalt.
She broke into a radiant smile
swung her arm at the old devil moon.
Hello, she cawed I hope you have
a beautiful evening!
You too! I called back,
and because I could not think
of anything else to do,
I gave her two thumbs up
and wiggled them.
She raised her thumbs, too,
and we stood like that
four thumbs pointing to the moon
and stars and their ancient light.

Afterwards, I realized a radio
must nest in her cart, its wavering
crackling music
like a message from the past,
or the future,
or a galaxy yet unnamed.
After she rolled past,
a quietude blanketed me
and the diamonded street.
The mist had turned to rain,
and the rain was quiet rain.