Focus Poem by Ross Lakes

Like pulling on a stalk of wheat till
Roots and soil come up together on a hot day.
Your head is hot, the air is hot. Everything
Alive or not is hot
And muggy, sweaty, sullen
Except the root.
You put out your hand and touch
With the skin of your fingertips and
In the middle of such nasty, gritty, dreary heat
The cool.
So you hold it in your palm,
And close your eyes.

Like plowing through a crowded sidewalk,
Senses overloaded from the
Bumping, shoulders rubbing, elbows.
Sharing breaths of moistened air,
Glares and glimpses, hasty judgments,
Avoiding contact, getting through,

Then she is there.
The hair!
The eyes! The smile! The frown!
Every feature comes to focus, poised poses, passionate profiles
Form and function—cool!

She is there.
And every other disappears.
No more passing scowls or meaningless, momentary smiles
No more, “Ben Laden is...” or “Wal-Mart won’t....”
'Bush is bad! ' or 'Bush is better! '
No more smell of roses mixed with mackerel,
Fruit with asphalt, sweat with cinnamon.

She is there,
Framed by faces, cheeks and sky.