When the word got out
that dogs are in fact 
those angels spoken of
in so many spiritual traditions,
there was a run on premium chow
and custom leather collars.

When the word got out
that cats made up a portion
of the heavenly host as well,
salmon became endangered
and mice were demonized anew.

When it became known
that those without homes, 
those who walk our streets
seeking shelter, those filthy
difficult humans
who huddle wherever 
some measure of heat and 
roof can be found
also have a holy role —

nothing changed, as those
who depend on sweet faces
and soft touch as talismans
of good refused that Word
and relied upon their own ease
to validate the meanness 
of their theology.

Here’s the very definition
of an asshole for you:

took up inordinate space in our heads
while alive,

keeps on doing it now that
he’s dead.

Up early again
but this time, 
raised up out of sleep
by contentment.  
Winter’s
almost over.
Can’t hear a bird out there yet.

Next door, though, Luis
and his battered old pickup
are rattling around in the driveway,
meaning most likely
he’s found work again at last,

and since he’s a carpenter,
a framer of homes, 
that’s a likely
sign of spring — that

and all the gray trash
we thought we’d lost
in all those storms
peeking out
of the shrinking snowbanks
where it’s been hiding,

and this suddenly familiar,
utterly different light
between the triple deckers
which now look like
they need a good wash.

Waking up content —
in need of a good wash myself,
not yet pissed at Luis
for being so noisy so early,
not yet shamed 
into picking up
the gray trash (waiting
sensibly
till those banks melt
a bit more),
knowing 
there will be birds
and green
soon enough.

A city spring
doesn’t come in
abruptly,
offering instead
something more
in keeping with
how dark it has been
for a while now —
not wanting to shock us
by exploding
into lovely
all at once.