A Cargo of Green Hearts
I awake to a racket at 3am bandits
by another name two orphaned coons climbing
the kitchen window screen protest in
ratchety voices but don’t budge when I tap
the glass so I open the sash and peer
into their partymask faces.
"What is it you want in this human world?"
Five blocks away, behind Lowe’s Building
Supply in the green by the Merrimack
the homeless of Concord have built cabins
from pilfered lumber complete with lawn
ornaments a ceramic frog, a garden gnome
gesturing "this way." The river flows by
and so the highway, the shoppers in and
out with bags of nails. In Luke, Jesus said
Should someone ask for your coat,
don’t withhold your shirt as well; in the Jataka
Sattva Buddha throws his body from a
cliff to feed a starving lioness. What did you
expect from this life? says a voice
room for everyone to breathe?
Imagine what can be done with three nails
with the blood and flesh of the bone.
The coons don’t understand but I do.
It is not the sound of our own starving
that will wake us--if we are destined to
wake at all.
I wonder what
I will do with the
night when all the
crickets have died
and the zeros come
to roost their crystalline
holes all over the
wind stripped trees.
the crickets, who
anchor the night to
the reasonable hours
and keep it from
spreading all over
everything the way it
does in November, the
month when razor
blades sharpen themselves
and the dead won't
I eye the guitar in
the corner that promised
to teach me magic words
but that was April.
time does not wait
and I am beginning
to suspect the postman
of keeping all the
love letters for himself
and the mice of turning
the hands of the clock
ahead just a bit.
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