you, writer

i mean no disrespect
when i say
you were wrong about the blue hydrangeas

instead, nearby, early spring light falls
in bright shapes of squares on my thick library table

there are quiet sounds surrounding me
the rainfall click of keyboard strokes
soft voices speaking somali
beeps of borrowed materials and their being checked out

this carnegie library keeps out the louder city beyond
it is a mixing in public

i found your book of poems in this small library
where i could probably count the shelves easily

i sit down and read this day

this day
where all i've done
is walk green central park with henry on leash

make a trip to drop some post
old fashioned thanks yous written out in pen

i have avoided the work that puts the finishing touches
on my nursing degree
in favor of daydreams and coffee
heating up a lunch of leftover lasagna

thoughts of riding a small motorbike
down roads following a river
to the edge of something and then turning back

to finish up sitting on the porch
dusting the leaves of houseplants
of which i am caretaking

sometime i'll get to entering the results
of the learning assesment/the knowledge deficit tool

but before, i may read another of your poems
think back to your description of the salt and pepper shakers
and about how we are both known and unknown
yet here we are again, mr. billy collins, this time in my poem
you with your bowl of pears, me with a stack of homework
your name with it's double lls and mine always just l

you, salt. still walking on your sea of water
me, perhaps pepper. sneezing loudly in this quiet place