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