The lost things. I went out weeping.
Men holding their hats lose
their words to the wind.
Paper drifts against the curbs. I am
dressed badly. My children are the children
of poor parents. Books are insulation
against the cold news. I am late.
I was invited, but my invitation
went stale. The crumbs itch inside
my collar. Constant risk corrodes
the stomach lining and only fresh milk
will help. I am in a constant search
for milk. I miss appointments. My wife
is always making excuses.
My car has broken down and out here
to be in need is to be suspect. In a fit
of patriotism I consider taking myself
over to that tree by the side of the road
to be shot. Haunted by the guilt of my own
execution, I look even more untrustworthy.
I scurry down an embankment.
Where else but the city? What else
but poverty? I drink from cupped hands
and see in the stream faces rushing
to the falls. I follow the rails downtown.
In line with so many others, waiting, singing,
I feel a sense of resolve. Hunger and resolve.
And an eagerness for the work.