Coming Home from Work

When I come home from work

the sky is already grey,

            brindled, flocked with clouds

a right turn out of the parking lot,

            down Central Park

to the busy intersection of Grand River Road

where I bump onto the sidewalk paralleling

four lanes of divided traffic

            in a couple minutes I turn again

into my complex

stop by the bank of mailboxes

to see if anyone knows I’m here

            then on to my townhouse with

its bench by the door

which I crank open in order to get

my bike inside before releasing the latch

            turn on the hallway light—

as shadows begin to lengthen.

 

Shut the blinds and eat dinner.

Outside, in the woods it is darker,

the leaves blackening the ground.