Another Recipe for Getting Lost

I often go walking in places I normally don’t
because I expect you might be there.
Your heavy hat erasing your eyebrows
and the ridiculous cravat of rolled musical papers
you hold so close.

The grandpa over there cannot stop
clapping and singing for the grandson’s picture
even after it’s too late and the boy has crossed the ocean.

The birds have their own traffic lights
for walking across the lawn.

Le Carrousel’s tra-la-la
moves even the riderless horses.
One of them has a really long mane,
which is confused when the whole thing
up and turns.
It doesn’t know whether to trail in a circle
or stick out behind straight as a beam.