a horse and carriage, if other men
laughed at him when he walked
from Walden Pond into town
for dinner with Emerson
or a meeting of the Transcendentalists.
Some men think to be a real man
you must drive a Ford like my brother Fred’s.
Wheels and speed, they say, give a man
independence, new scope for adventure.
I can’t afford such luxury, but no matter.
When I walk, I stop, like Thoreau,
to examine a speckled leaf,
a milkweed beetle. I laugh
at baby squirrels trying their legs
in the ash trees. I follow a path
made by deer, marvel how rabbit ears
perk up as I approach,
how red-winged blackbirds’ defend
their nests. I whistle with cardinals
while Fred zips down the highway singing,
seeing so little.
-Previously published in Keystrokes
Wilda Morris, Workshop Chair of Poets and Patrons, has published poems in numerous anthologies, webzines, and print publications. Her first book was Szechwan Shrimp and Fortune Cookies: Poems from a Chinese Restaurant. Pequod Poems: Gamming with Moby-Dick (Kelsay Books), was published in 2019. Her blog, wildamorris.blogspot.com, features monthly poetry contests.
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