Santa Cruz
In this town there’s a riverwalk
of paved paths & naturalizing weeds
where dirty needles
push promises into foundered veins.
The sun is shining
but the homeless haven’t shed their layers.
There’s a sleeping bag buried in rushes,
barnacled with mud.
As I push her stroller across the bridge
my grandchild shows me
how inside it lies a ponytailed head
& next to it a puppy’s tail.
— after Akhmatova
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