William J. Neumire

OWNERSHIP

In the angling 10am light a two year-old bends and picks
up a woodchip. That’s mine, he says, and tucks it
in the fold of his mitten. He owns it, not even
the darkness can steal that piece of wood
from his possession. Not even debt, ostracizing,
and sin -- which he knows nothing of.

Later, he chooses a leaf wetted against
The red plastic slide with leftover rain.
That’s my leaf. Not yours. Mine.

Leaving the playground the car barely starts.
It pulls into life like a kicked dog. There is nothing
I can do. At home my wife is sleeping alone,
not dreaming of me. Even the cat eats his food and leaves.
There is little left to control. Through the windshield
I try to reclaim my world: My clouds, my wind-bent birch,
my teeming canal. My interim of chance between
where I was and where the giving up and taking
will bring me.

Location:	Brockport, New York
Occupation:	Preschool Teacher
Email:	wjneumire@msn.com
Publications:	Adirondack Review, Poetry Midwest, Zuzu's Petals, 2River, AugustCutter, Blue Mesa Review, Melange, Pierian Springs, ThreeCandles, etc.
Chapbook:	Resonance of Kin (forthcoming from 2River View)

- December 2002 - 2 Elbows, 18 Fingers, 5 Flights Up What I Did Last Summer Wet Beth David sestina A Plate of Cookies The Incredible Shrinking Man No Gomer Claus Ownership Anne Askew The Body is More Than Its Malignancy Precipice Poems