The Words at Hand
I want to write something exquisite
and tender, but those are not the words at hand. The words
at hand are mismatched socks, lint, and dog hair,
homework, and the flu.
I want the pigeons
out of my yard. They bully the smaller birds—
the male cardinals hopping along behind their mates to feed them.
I want the bellies of the females filled.
I don’t want the words MOAB, refugee, and rape,
unemployment or cancer to grow sticky
in the lives they invade.
I don’t want to be petty about my desires,
or worry about money in the presence of my wealth.
I want big things, too, and not just for me:
shelter and prayer, friends
meeting in the street with a hug,
the ornamental plums in bloom a little longer,
so everyone has time to see them
before their blousy fall.
