There are things of import to address,
momentous words yet to be written,
some idol-shattering calls to action
to be made into Earth-saving poems.
For example, in one the action may center
on a rooftop in Brooklyn.
The protagonist will think
of a PJ Harvey song
and refer to the day the towers came down;
then, he will move, and refocus on the street
where a coin will fall from his too-soft hand into a beggar’s cup
as something from the Qu’ran is whispered to the night —
but it’s not my place to write that poem.
I feel a little queasy that I’ve described it here;
someone elsewhere would have preferred it if I’d let it be
until they got around to it; my grand apologies to one and all.
See, the nights are still cold in New England this early in spring;
the heat burns money, the coffee takes power I can’t afford,
even the cat’s demanding more of me than I have to give.
The promise of rebirth is a carrot I can’t reach;
the road I’m being urged to travel
is too long for the time I have left.
Let someone else write the poems for that road,
someone indifferent to me and my kind
who just want to move somewhere warmer
than this place, who long for a place
where simply being warm and in love and full is enough,
and that’s all everyone in the world really needs.