Plucking Petals
Tell us what time it is
calls out somebody in the
crowd, in between verses
of summertime reimagined
in evening’s light at Newport.
And lately isn’t everyone
trying to tell us what time
it is—tugging away at the
night shutters—drooling
over glass with index finger
or smashing away at stars
while piping up with both
thumbs in the comments.
I’ve always known what
time it is, by fickle shards
of light and shadow sliding
over rooftops across the
street, or by the sedate
tick tock of tardy hands.
But tell me again if you
must—wingless bird, if
you think I need to know
where the sun has gone
and we’ll watch the night
fall apart together, as
salty words weep quietly
under your fuming red nails.
©️Orion Foote, 2022
Visions of Orion Poetry 