Under a burgeoning sun I clear out places
to let flowering vines thrive, crawl across bricks,
day casting light that kills viruses,
knowing full well it also casts shadows,
where vermin hide. A boy—perhaps a girl—
has snatched a nest, cardinal or robin?
The remains of eggs, woven sticks strewn
across the sidewalk in front of my house
I swept just yesterday. Perhaps it belonged
to the robin that gobbled a green lizard
before it could dig back into its hole, save itself.
On the porch, passive, I sip a coffee.
paranoia, terror, outrage seem everywhere.
Wild strawberries ripen under the bulging moon.
Richard Stuecker is a poet and writer who graduated from Duke University in 1970. A Pushcart Prize nominee, he holds an MFA from Eastern Kentucky University. His poems have appeared in or been accepted by Tipton Poetry Review, Tilde, Former People, Pegasus, Main Street Rag, Poetica Review, Rubbertop Review, Otherwise Engaged, Birmingham Arts, West Trade, and District Lit. Kelsay Books published his first chapbook, The Uncertainty Principal, in 2020.