I park my car around the corner

and walk down your street one last time

and I want: a pink wind, blue angels

rows of mourners in black uncomfortable clothing

mirrors covered with clean sheets

and heavy carpets over all the windows. 

I want the world blind like my stubborn heart.

I want women who mourn and men who cater to them

children who worry with black eyes full of wonder.

I want jazz. I want Bach. I want to cry

a single trumpet that bends every note

along the crescent of your brown street.

But I stand alone in your morning garden

and listen to your prayer of rose, sermon of rain,

and know--with you, I was a better person.

Here, I hear again your warm warning to me:

Life is like a parachute.  It protects you.

It betrays you.  Still, you must jump.