CREATIVE DISTRICT, says the sign

by my house, and now we’re setting ourselves up

for some irony. STEPHEN KING RULES

(and this all really happened), says

the t-shirt on the cashier at the coffeeshop.

And I say — “Ah, er, um.” And ask him

if I can leave some of my poetry

on the counter. “I was in ‘The Paris Review’?”

I tell him, hopefully, helpfully, suggestively

(but don’t mention that I was in there

for a cartoon about a unicorn).

“…Stephen King was in there too?” I add.

And get the unexpected No. (But nicely.)

Nicely, nicely, always oh so very nicely.

Well fuck you, dude. And I won’t be stopped,

handing two of my poems to the women

sitting next to me. And here, the story concludes.

For I’m still sitting here typing this up on my laptop.

Christ. (And oh life and life, and my life —

typing and tables and desks,

typing and typing forever and ever.

World without a redemption arc.

Words without end, amen.)

And then, on my way back home,

sludging through the snow

(wrote that first part, then trudged

homeward for a fresh start), I see —

bright primary colors, and on a porch

bright yellow and green and purple dinosaurs

(and red and blue and orange too) —

placed there carefully by some child.

Standing there, the dinos, in vivid tableaux —

and they are un-forlorn. On a porch in the snow,

the colors. Leaving the creative district,

and now the world is art again.

(Writing this down at my desk,

in my hidey-hole, and I remember.)

Snow, and smells, and vividness, and hope yet —

that all sins will be redeemed.