Poem about that little table

in our building lobby

Sometimes –

I feel rich when I leave a barely worn sweater and when I come by in an hour to check the mail and someone has already taken it (the sweater). And when I pick up a worn but interesting book from the same location and keep it for a while alongside my bed, even 
if I never read it.

Blueberries, avocados, and yogurt (vegan) made with coconut milk make me feel rich 
but also poor. Also pecans and apricots. 

I used to feel rich when I knew each inch of the sidewalk where we walked our old dog - where the walk inclines and where it slopes, where the crickets were loudest in summer, as well as the north side vs south (some things remain constant).

I feel rich now when I walk along the river at 5 and send you a photo ‘these two little ducks were just wrestling on the water' and 'their feathers are ruffled. I think they are young lol’ and you reply ‘they are mergansers’ 

And I will feel even more-so later, because I know when I look that up (a large sea duck of rivers and lakes)
sure enough, you will be right.

Portugal

I notice the locals are staying on dry land. 

There is a man lying on the rocks in the sun and he sees you and turns to me 
and shakes his head no. He climbs the rocks to get your attention. 

He doesn’t speak but shows you that he waits for the lull in the waves - and then dives 
into one of the deep lava pools almost like a shore bird and then perfectly scales
the rocks to high ground, 
well before the next wave arrives. 

He knows exactly where to place his grip and land his footing. 

I imagine he learned this as a boy.

I imagine someone long ago who got washed away by a wave
right here where the depth quickly falls to 10,000 feet.

Portuguese respect for the sea.

There are small concrete pools in each village that are either in or on the sea,
and that fill with sea water and tides. 

The locals swim in the pools.

They make bonsai from Sycamore trees. The trees line roads 
and guide travelers.

Saint Anthony

says he is going to New York City for a long weekend with the $800 he has found 
along the sidewalk in the past few years along his route. He says it’s all coins and bills. 

He says he wants to get his picture taken at 53rd and 3rd in honor of the Ramones.

He answers to ‘Anthony’ or ‘Andrew’. He is not picky. When I was sick with Covid 
I would watch for him at my window and every day just around 1:30 he appeared,
bearded, in the courtyard of my building - with his sack slung over his shoulder. 

Rain or shine.  

At first glance he doesn’t look like a saint - in fact he has tattoos and has the same
(stained) sweatshirt on every day under his USPS official uniform shirt (sported as 
a makeshift vest). 
               Sartorial rebellion for all the mandatory overtime - ? 
He laughs it off.  

Back to his sainthood – his sweatshirt has a hood, like many saints as depicted in medieval engravings.

He helped me find an important letter that I thought had been lost.

Anthony always makes me smile.

I have him on speed-dial.

Diane Pohl