In Touch With Reality

a poetry assignment on senses

The rough bark
of the tree
I was leaning against
scratched my tired back.

Around me
leaves were rustling
with a sht cht, sht cht,
like timid mice
in the attic.

A chick-a-dee sang,
calling out his name
and a woodpecker responded
with a rat-i-tac-tac
on an old, rotten tree.

Nearby,
a steak was grilling
that sounded like popcorn
and smelled like heaven.

The wind spoke to me
in a chill whisper,
telling me that the hour had come
for me to leave.

So with Max,
my eyes,
we left the park for home.