And yet the birds continue their morning songs
their morning revelries
following nights of thrashing
nights of intruders, hooded,
with shopping bags hung from frail wrists.
Everywhere, up and down the roadway,
the cotton unfurls
eyes fix on the mouths of babes
hands clutch fallen leaves
and fallen memories.
Everywhere shopkeepers display measures of will.
Only yesterday we worried the resurfacing
of the tennis court,
the repainting of the screens
for the Mikado's summer run.
Only yesterday we counted our change
and our friends.
Will we ever again have enough time
with the sun at its highest
to say what should be said
to caress unlined, tranquil faces mid-afternoon
in white rooms with breeze-filled curtains?
Look over there. The steps of those
once holed-up in oubliettes
join with us as we begin our journey back
across wooden bridges and barren fields
across parking lots and cemeteries
clappers announcing our way
against the soggy newspaper
that couldn’t wait that morning
to broadcast its headline
on an otherwise sky-blue day,
buses and trains drop-jawed,
catching us off-guard as well with little else
but perversities stuffed into our timeworn pockets.
