Sunset in March, 2020

L.A. isn’t crowded, 

there were plenty of eggs 

at the store, the news 

is a simple story, 

most things 

can’t always be true

like summer nights in March, 

80s lingering in the backyard

like my hand holding a phone

with too many alerts

at the end of a Friday 

as numbered as any 

for all of us, for me, 

and for the possum 

who looked scared 

when I asked her 

to not come any closer,

she turned, eyes huge, 

even bigger than mine

have to be to take in

what all of us see, 

and I felt bad, 

worse when her claws 

scraped by at a blur, 

we’re animals, both of us run, 

both watch these nights

that open like eyes

that open still wider 

every night now, 

close again in the days 

that surround us until 

the next night when nothing

passes by me, 

then stays 

where it has to keep watching 

with everything else

that lives with us now,

all night 

beside the pool

after sunset. 

Possum (oil pastel on construction paper)