The spare tire lurks—useless, flat,
only a metaphor for safety—there, hanging
off the back of my ’97 Toyota Rav
brilliant with the day’s radiance against
the muted, algaed driveway that slopes
so steeply down to the busy street
overhung by the leaning Douglas fir
that was whacked by a falling cedar some
years ago (before I bought this house)
where the robins have built their nest
right above the sidewalk and bring red worms
with threads of moss and clucks of alarm all day.
If I put my hands on the mail in the pandemic
how do I open the door? How do I open
the flip-top of disinfectant wipes?
When I was a child, how did I move
so lightly from the transom to the dinghy,
from dinghy to the rocky shore
without getting wet at all? The Summer
I lived in Vancouver with an ear virus
and couldn’t stand up at all. What?
Resilience is the word everybody’s using,
making bright sounds with dark and sticky
down there on the sidewalk some kind of
weird shepherd-corgi cross is looking up, is
a dog with short legs and long aspirations.