In the Dark Times
I fix a coat from air to clothe my fears,
accept tomorrow will be full of cracks
and their attendant gusts: the roof
over my life may be past repair.
I wait for words
sent out like crows to return, even
if soaked, wings like broken branches.
Buy a stranger a burger. Hand another
paper money. Know they’ll both stomach
I drop each of my hours like a crumb.
I won’t walk this way again. My days
line up like inmates and clap hands.
They clap hands for me,
and I sing.
This and one other poem in Diode.