Even Now

Like a raccoon, I forage. It’s my only excuse to leave the house.
I learn which store gets paper goods at dawn, which one usually
has bread. I know where to find apples, milk—even now. On my
way back, I pass the empty cathedral, its towers still slicing
clouds. Tulip poplars rain petals on the sidewalk. A hospital-
gowned man with an IV stand smokes by a bus stop. At home,
bumblebees are back, motoring between my neighbor’s porch
and mine as we complain about a truck blocking the alley.
Solomon’s seal drills its newborn leaves through soil. And the
brazen azaleas: pinking and purpling the backyard, as if nothing
has changed.