Two Cardinals
by Matt Farley
One decomposing log: an orchestra of spores.
One pair of Goodwill shoes caked in mud.
For some reason, I always find myself making decisions like this.
In the mud. I thought that once I became an adult,
I would know what the right thing to wear would be.
One shiny tree. Is that glitter on the tree?
Two rabbit holes in the ground. One Disco tree
in the middle of the park. It seems out of place.
Two shady spots where the ground is covered in frost.
One dog not on leash. The tree is too fabulous.
One rabbit’s skull picked bleached white.
I scream at the tree. Hey! Disco Tree!
Get out of here! Didn’t you hear about the bill
those psychos passed in Florida?
Two dogs and one man with a nice butt wearing mud boots
walking in front of me.
One turkey vulture. It’s not safe! But then I remember
trees don’t have ears. One shadow. One cigarette butt.
It was the year I was broke. I picked cigarette butts off the ground
and smoked them. I guess it’s my shadow. 21 ice puddles
that are 21 worlds. What I mean is that I am
my shadow. Is Beyonce’s Renaissance a disco album?
I’m not sure. Once, I was in the car with my mom,
and she hit a bird and killed it.
My daughter is a week-old today.
21 windowpanes. My shadow is me.
She pulled off to the side of the road and started sobbing.
Then praying. 20 more puffs in my inhaler.
One memorial Labyrinth that promotes gratitude.
One year of sobriety.
She told me she couldn’t imagine if any of her kids were gay.
10 geese trespassing into the private pond
against the wishes of the HOA. I’m grateful for geese
noncompliance. One helicopter that looks like a blackbird.
I still have the scar from when I pushed my arm through
the windowpane. Her eyes were searching
for something in mine. Turned on thinking
about the 20-something with the nice legs.
I usually like hairier dudes. One hill perfect for rolling down.
Hairier dudes like the hairy-armed French café owner.
Five artificial pale pink roses standing at attention
in memory of a woman who died before she turned 60.
One plaque which instructs us to let her memory
inspire us in everything we do.
The plaque reminds me that I need to buy
oat milk if I want to eat cereal
in the morning and get cat food.
Hairier dudes like Hugh Jackman.
Wolverine in the first X-Men movie.
One profusion flowering crabapple.
One call to Dad on his 70th birthday.
It's been a while. We talk about his cancer.
He asks me to send him pictures of the baby.
One dandelion. Would I see my shadow?
No broken glass to pick up. Would there be a sign?
An epiphany? 57 minutes until my therapy appointment.
She seems competent enough. Besides, what do I know?
This is my first therapist.
How do you know if it’s a good fit or not?
One little free library.
One endangered owl seen through a telescope.
I want more of a literary balance to exist
in the little free library’s ecosystem,
so I’m doing my part. Three more cars
pull into the park. Ten cold fingers.
Between two Michael Crichton books,
I’ve left a copy of George Oppen’s Selected Poems.
I didn’t just wear the wrong shoes.
I didn’t bring gloves. The moon’s outline is peeking
over the reedy marshland, shadows multiplied
reflect off the barely frozen puddles.