Saturdays are promises to myself I cannot keep.
The barge in my backyard carries coal and candy.
Spring violet sweetflower scents the air as
your tears, audible over the airwaves,
show a dreadful face of grief.
We’ll meet somewhere in the middle
of the week, Kate, and I’ll hoist Cleveland
and all your homeless children onto my
back and you’ll rest a while.
Together, we will save them all.
Empty chance of this, but we can hope, ai-je raison?
Sis, you said it wrong before. Listen
to your frog pond, your evening
owls, they speak directly to
your sorrow. They offer alternatives.
There is a large boat that carries us sweetly,
on still waters, past smokestacks,
squatter shacks, and home again, rested
in ways that make the hard work possible;
that keeps me here for you, and you, for all of us.
Early Morning Poems 