Write a poem about a specific place. Try to incorporate concrete details.
Only when we’re told to stay home
do we swarm outside
like flies
and bees and gnats
to flowers and dead things
disregarding all orders.
I walk down the dirt path
along the cemetery on Prince St.
for solitude and fresh air —
I hear the crunch of gravel
beneath my dusty tennis shoes,
see the rocky mountains’ foothills
loom to the west
as the tired sun nestles behind them
for the night
and the telephone poles eavesdrop
behind the metal fencing
meant to keep the dead
separated from the living.
Couples in blue windbreakers
and white shorts
walking on top of shrubs
to keep a 6-foot distance
between us —
some smile,
some say “hello,”
