the promise of what follows winter

half past rain, the sound
of spring birds at dusk

click of a light switch
just in time for dinner 

and the old truck
glides into the driveway 

nothing drips down
through the ceiling, just yet

somewhere the phone rings…
where did I leave it this time? 

meat sizzles on the range,
the refrigerator sighs, 

resigned to a pre-dinner raid;
the dishwasher – does --

and televisions yap and
video games absorb and 

homework calls: and
somewhere, someone writes 

a letter or a poem to hide
among the bills and ads

news from a small town 16, April 2011