|I see black beetles burrowing through the grass.
Dewdrops to them are centuries.
I see stars in their eyes.
I see them try to rise above themselves.
I see the strain bend down the blade.
I see her faltering, old, as she moves
the broom across the porch.
I see her stop to look around her.
I see a created sun walk on her face.
I see that she is great, important down to every nostril
I see difficulties, thick walls with real mortar
covering the outsides of the doors.
I see that nothing is enough.
I see that we have wasted everything.
I see that we are costly, not the finest glory.
I see cats along fences, none of them
eager, happy, according to their expressions.
I see one arch up his back. Clouds
move across the sun: they are happy enough for now.
I see them walking, taken by the hand.
(Laura Jensen forgot to put her name and the date on hers.)
Waiting for the Bus Outside the House of Bedlam