Poem 68 (Pandemic Day 71)

FLOTSAM

Cool day
Middle of May

Fleece jacket, helmet,
just enough to break the chill
Two wheels take me off
 to clear my mind,
release the detritus,
the dregs and the dreck

But.      

     I’m a collector, a saver, a hoarder;

Ahead of me, a pheasant rooster
disappears into a ditch

     Isn’t this the country road
where my son’s childhood friend lived?
I like his mother;
we still exchange Christmas cards.

So long since I came this way—
which house is theirs?

     A movement in the trees
A black turkey buzzard,
too big for the space
Wheels tight and low over a pond
Noisy frogs chirrup and croak

I’ll collect only these sights
to take back with me
They don’t require space
in a full house
I don’t stop for the shiny bolt
or the rusted metal
No other roadside treasures
to be found today

Then.
     A white balloon. And another
New, listless, uninflated.
Three, four, five and yes, six.

And now I have the answer to a question
never asked before—

     Where do balloons go
     when the parties are gone
     and the people don’t gather?

Just briefly,
before the grass overwhelms,
I know.

--Jean Doolittle

...And now for something completely different, as John Cleese might say; today's poem didn't come from my poetry shelf, but arose out of my own experience.  My first poem of the pandemic.  I realize there are new questions being asked and new ways of seeing.  Today I added the epigram from Mary Oliver at the top of the page--I'm just following instructions.