In the pale morning, hope
is a child, willing to try anything.
At the grocery store,
arrowed aisles, sentries,
sanitizer advertise
the danger of getting
too up-close.
Eyes peer over masks—suspicious?
Afraid? Angry?
Hard to tell, but
hope leaks through feeble cloth.
Do this, don’t do that
wears patience thin as masks.
Home again, safe enough
alone. Keep busy through
the list of daily do-this, do-that,
Hope slouches in a kitchen chair.
At night, though,
Hope is
nowhere
About 2 a.m. my mood
droops,
drapes itself
over the
bedclothes.
Only get through the dark bits.
I sit up, stretch my neck, remember
dawn comes
easily.
Let the clock play out.
The seconds— each heart beat
the fragment
of a long minute.
The birds begin their babble.
An uneasy light
drifts up.
If I’m lucky I sleep.
If not, she yanks me up
Through
cracks
in morning’s
floorboards.
