Poetry

As the early-evening Metroliner slows
and sidles at dream-flight height
through the apocalyptic back lots
and whistle stops of New Brunswick

Combing my hair, a sudden snarl
in the pink teeth.

How silent, death entering.

Wind does one thing with clouds,
 another with leaves;
the clouds go, go, go; the leaves

Above the kitchen table where my children color,
their big calendar frames a drawing—

Since I last looked up
from my book,
another appeared in the room