EMPTY HANDS
Birds call a chickadee backwards, a few stragglers
flit about - some morning workers are strolling
in, holding coffee and plastic drinks. Everything
seems still nonetheless. This is an early morning
arrival, another pestering day across the board.
-
I've got nothing to hold on to; empty hands all
about. Stretching the taut fabric of the day, I think
about Hart Crane and his bridge, those apples, and
my old seat at Chumley's with Bobby Beddia.
All of that's over now, and he's dead. I am
suffering, and still such a fool.
-
If there was an ever-present God, would I turn
to it in praise, or wonder? I myself, still unsure.
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