September 1, 2020

confetti

When my neighbor asks, as we pass each other on our separate walks down the road, 
”What’s new?” I consider the large fonts of the day’s disasters and every pending doom
just visible from here. In all directions, a different rabbit hole beckons, each a version
of the same trouble. Across the country, someone’s young son has died so mysteriously,
his mother will be wrestling eternally for answers; above me, the sky feels held 
in the same precipitous suspense. My neighbor’s face is worn, his cap crushed in 
at the seams. We know so little about each other. I answer, “We’re painting a few rooms,”
as if to invite him to a house I know he cannot enter. My neighbor asks if we’re staying 
the winter, and looks happy when I say yes. We wave each other on, and I return to add
another coat, and the walls smell of second chances, and my hands look like confetti.