Route 9, Saturday

I had the blinker going for too long.

The car half on the shoulder of Route 9,

looking at a yard sale I wasn't stopping for—

the folding tables, the lamps, a box of records.

And back from all of it, between two oaks,

a hammock that wasn't for sale. Bleached stripes.

One end lower than the other.

The shape it held in the middle—

the shape of someone who'd gotten up.

I sat there. The blinker going.

A woman came out of the house,

walked to the tables, looked at something,

didn't look at me.

I drove on.

I don't know what I wanted from it.

Not the hammock.

Something about the way a thing

keeps the shape of what was in it

after the weight is gone.