Shorts, a T-shirt, and another run through the dark in the rain.
Fifty-two degrees, a joy to move and breathe.
And then there’s the news: the neighbor’s overflowing gutter,
a streetlight out, a car with a for-sale sign, the sound of distant geese.
Wet arms, wet face, wet hair, wet feet.
Nations come and nations go.
Rally ’round the flag — a mother’s grief,
her bloody sheets, her once-bright tablecloth.
[ 1390 ]
Categories: Sweet Sleep and Bare Feet