by Allyson Paty
Too many in the post office line. Each one
clutches his parcel and his woe is me.
Think, of course, of the stove, the lamp.
Go outside if the rain peters out or sleep
when the construction quiets down.
After the morning glories closed
you gripped the chicken wire just in case
the wind came to rattle you away with
the seedpods. Just maybe the stove,
your blackened kitchen. At the grocery store
the loaf goes stale before you can buy it.
A man behind you spit shines his child
when she squirms herself to tears.
Stand straight and stay still. The light
gaping out at the empty room.
