Sunday, January 27, 2013

Sometimes I wonder who I think I am

click-clacking marks across the page in the sleepy gray
of all alone dawn. Too early yet for yellow, I stare

at the chilly overcast of a disappointing spring.
There is a breeze this morning whispering through

the maple like an aubade and hummingbirds are already
busy sipping clear sweet sugar-water my still-sleeping wife

made ready for them before bed. The minute-hand starts its way
back up the round and it’s time to stop pretending. I buckle my belt,

lace steel-toed boots, carry everything with me to the truck and drive
directly into another day of begging, begging, begging for mercy.



Little Patuxent Review - Issue 13 Doubt

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