Haze

The sun hangs lower in the sky today

Than I recall it hung a year ago.

The clouds obscure it with their tired gray;

Perhaps that's why it now appears so low.

Or maybe I have moved without my knowing

To some exotic and more northern clime

Where even summer sun is not caught showing

Its face above the hills, and cannot climb.

Perhaps today, just once (or now, forever),

I'm just a little taller than I was

Lifted above the sun by my own lever.

Or maybe it seems lower now because 

I am a little sadder, and the sky 

Responds to how I feel, and won't ask why.

Sun

The dog has found a sunbeam, where

She doesn't worry about life.

She seems to lack a single care,

Forgetting hunger, pain, or strife.

She sits and lounges her limbs out

Her belly flat against the floor

Her tail still flipping roundabout

And slapping carpet more and more.

She's ceased to pant; her tongue is still;

Her eyes are closed in ecstacy;

She loves the sun and drinks her fill

As comfortable as she can be

Until her awful owner shuts

The curtain. Oh, she hates my guts.

Canals

My love is like a mighty river's flow

That runs on unimpeded to the sea;

My love is like the current, great but slow,

Imposing in its own immensity.

My love is like the flood that, when it rains,

Expands the river out of its known course

And though it may cause unexpected pains

Will irrigate the land with its great force.

My love is like meanders that swing wide

And circle back to its first course again;

My love is like the high banks that abide 

To house the settlements of hopeful men.

And like those men, I dig my own way out

To channelize my love past fear or doubt.

People Watching

There is a minor pleasure in observing;

In being near, but not quite in, a scene.

For some it may be awkward or unnerving

To worry that their seeing may be seen,

But let it be: let the observed observe.

My watching pleasure needs not to foreclose

Another's. Better--they deserve

The same as I. The pleasure grows

Not from some sense of exclusivity 

But from the knowledge that our world is shared,

That I and they are present equally

Our souls both hidden or perhaps both bared.

I sit and watch the people, and the pleasure

Comes from our shared experience of leisure.

Le Metro

The metro is the city. Take New York:

It never sleeps, although sometimes it should.

Boston's Green Line, modeled on a fork,

Splits like its city lines. Vancouver could

Like all its trees and mountaintops

Survive without a human presence. Broad

Industrial Chicago puts its stops

Where everyone can see them. London's odd

Because it's first, and thinks it did it best;

DC's a grand and new experiment;

The BART a convoluted, sprawling mess;

Seattle's not quite sure what "metro" meant.

And having surveyed this, and rode them all,

I ask: why are there two in Montréal?