little purple flowers

it’s the little things

that pull, that punch,

leave a black hole, cold

questions with no

answers, today on the

way, empty playgrounds

sidewalks previously

spilling over with

puppies and parents

with strollers and

scooter zooming too

fast, not today, not

for many days, and

this morning or was

it night running to

the shelter, looking

for the lady with the

dog staying at her

boyfriend’s apartment

because his shelter is

better, absent, and

I worry the worst—did

the dog die? or did they

break up? she was

so sweet and he so

kind singing songs

and cheering us all

up, or the babies, the

babies cuddling close

to their mamas and

papas in onesies

asleep, oblivious but

are they? does it

somehow sink in?

on some level? or

the young couple

from Moscow with

the son who plays

video games, does

he know? always in

pajamas, not at school,

is he lonely? and then

on the way home I am walking

to the corner shop to

get milk I don’t

really need but do

or will eventually

and see in the sun

behind weeds and

dirt in a little patch

of sun, little purple

flowers, that maybe

are weeds or maybe

not but who knows

and it doesn’t really

matter because they

today are the masterpiece

of the moment, which

I grab and hold close

and savor and hope

I remember to look

tomorrow for

little purple flowers.