Comments about Cynthia Ward
We were sniffing
gelatinous potatoes soiled
by brown gravy and lumpy cheese.
You chose the lunch.
I went along with the fries
from an old fear of ending up dead
and trapped between two slices of bread:
a childhood hunch about the end coming
in a confusion of ground beef, flies,
stale ketchup, mayonnaise and hot sun.
Outside the park,
the mountains were deep cobalt
and away on the horizon the smell of rain.
I wanted desperately to escape towards them
to set myself free by getting drenched
to explore with one naked foot