By Helen Wickes
To get through Sunday, there’s a grumpy ascent from sleep,
and forgetting: the soul that rises with us, etc.,
the making of the list, work a while, sink
into the paper—yes, the phone—no & then go stare
at clouds, at two crows, with notation of fear,
and pleasure,
at some point lunch and worrying
about death, death of beloveds, of unknown
people, deciding to think, pretending
to work, checking the almanac
for moonrise, fretting about news
from afar, bickering about nothing
because that’s what happens
remembering to remember
the days, wondering if that was gunshot
or just our local meth guys on a roll
around the corner, but still, here’s hoping
there’s chicken and sauce enough
for dinner, lonely for a phone call, knowing
the day’s work, the lived life want revisiting,
reclamation, before we’ve grown too old,
with all those small words, cut free, adrift in space.