It may console you to know — 
and I admit that is not at all certain,
has yet to be determined — 
that there may be a road
somewhere ahead 
that can get us out of here,
take us somewhere we’ve never been
that is better than this.

People like to talk about
“the good old days”
forgetting how often 
someone’s good old days
were ankle-deep in the misery
of others. Were nurtured
in blood and tears, 
fed on bones and theft.

You might have to
give something away
to walk that road.
Something you rely on.
Something you call your own, deep rooted
like the oak your grandfather planted
in the front corner
of the lot where stands
your family home. 

You may not have to
cut the tree down — 
but you might.

At the least
you should gather the acorns
and give them away to be planted
to people who’ve long been starved
for shade, beauty,
the ecstasy
of watching something grow.

whatever I know now
is less than I did 

as I’ve shed 
much of what I had thought

was universal
in favor of the particulars

of my skin and hers
in opposition

to hard things
that have been sold to us all

this was all I had ever needed
to get by

there has been such a sense
of wasted time

that of late
I can hardly bear up

and I do forever fear
it could still cut me down

Simply put:
purify. 

Open your dim places
and wash them clean.
Scrub all your worn places,
no matter how lit they are
or are not, and stop only
when the brush-bristles are worn 
to nubs.  

There may be nothing left
when you’re done, true,
but then you should ask
what it has cost you to carry all this
from place to place, from one year
to the next. 

There may be blood
on your knuckles
when you are done,
filth on your knees;
you may be coughing
and your eyes might sting
from the view of what you are now;
and honestly?
Maybe you’ll die.

It’s possible.

The point is
that once purified,
you’ll have room.

Anything else
might also be possible.

In my left hand pocket,
a birthday card from 1923
found in a dresser drawer
at an antique store,
addressed to “Freddy”
on his fourteenth birthday:
September 3rd, 1923.
Why did Freddy 
leave this card from
“Aunt Sarah” behind?
How did it come to be
in the drawer?
Was it left here
by Freddy, never delivered
by Aunt Sara, put here
by a shopper playing a trick
on unsuspecting me
in particular, or
was it randomly placed?

Is anything
randomly placed?

I think about that
on the way home as I play
an old song in the car.

No, not that one.

I don’t know what this poem
has to say
that hasn’t been said before,
over and over, 
by better poets.

I just know
I had to say it
again:

is anything random?
After all it is the third of September
and it’s a day
I will likely not forget
because there’s a song about that, too.

Too much rain today
for the folks
in California.

How are they
supposed to sing
about the sunshine
if it feels like
a lie?

How are we
supposed to wish
for that promised land
when the people who live there
are drowning?

Tell me
how we can be our best old selves
when the planet
is telling us, implacably,
that we must change
or be washed away.