A poem . . .

My Hope

Everybody’s got hope
even me I’ve got mine
a kind of hybrid version
made up of loose ends grace-
notes nervy little orgasms
and a porridge
of missed opportunities
that sometimes bubbles over
onto the stove-top where
I slave each morning
bright and new
wiping my hands
on an apron
of anticipation
my brow glistening
my back bent
my mind changing
before my very eyes

This poem is part of a book-length manuscript, "A Fool's Alphabet."  Others to follow.