A poem Sarah wrote about Portland

slim like scallions, the newly minted natives are smoking the center, gauging

the thrust and mellow hum of the small pond pandering for big and bigger fish

having not so many minutes for suburbany hills and the tall tree patches that clash like

a pattern of marked-down carpet samples, they instead prefer to storm unnecessarily and

plot their hazy visions, peddling each parlor trick across damp sidewalks and soggy

weeklies, dragging their gigs efficiently over stretchy bridges basted with rain

pillaging a city is exhausting work and if they slept they'd be asleep by now

we just flew in from (some state here) and man are our arms tired

yet on they go! swimming with an equal mashing of stutter and champ they enunciate

every wet minute, pausing only to breathe, to stall and mix and shake out their calves

in time, a collection stands haltingly in a heap of several Stark and Grand seasons

kicking them aside, they could be ready to go west go east go

anywhere else and they might

on an accidental whim, they tuck inside one wild night's decision to scram –

goddamn let's do this - and soon their Focus is caulked and they're floating the

Columbia, sailing to Los Feliz or Minneapolis as a way to save their party

it's been too long, too small, too intimate

and yet a lovable place, they'll say, sheepishly admitting to dry and absent

friends yes we enjoyed our pale sickly shoulders, the moody gutters

cramped with leaves and a handful of chances for odd-flavored beer

Now that's talent, people!