His Glory

I could be wading along these paths--the air is thick,
Moving against my skin as if the water is being worn by the heat.
In the library (converted from the old showers)
There's a book on hold and a room-devouring stroller
                                            --A minor boss
Before the gingers and the ants
Take me down paths between leaves swelling
Above me, deep in green, in sun.

I make a circuit, see the ponds, kumquats, columns
Wavering as if late morning evaporated at midday's sigh.

It was in the shadow of the porch,
Before the two-years-since locked doors:
A red tablecloth
Crisp, bright letters--
Commissioner Cagle's name gleaming
From the dimness.

It's his glory, I suppose.
Continuing that magician's trick
A vibrant cloth swirling
Over nothing but promises.