September 22, 2020

someone has to fill the vending machines in the middle of Kansas

And so I tell myself, this is your work now, as I make a pot of soup or sweep 
the deck clear of acorns or even when I lie, slack-bodied, in my rumpled bed,
watching the remnants of hurricanes jostle the bay waves. I say, if nothing else 
and there but for the grace and count your lucky and what will nourish for the long haul and 
as if you are making a prayer. Somewhere west of here, someone is driving 
an interminable stretch of the interstate, stops for a bathroom break at the next rest area,
slides a frayed dollar into a slot, types B6 on a pushbutton pad that leads to a row
of Cool Ranch Doritos. It isn’t a meal, but it will last for the final miles of the day’s drive, 
and so I peel carrots to carry the day on, too, and reach for the broom, and squint at 
the white caps, and a fine dust hovers around us, ringed with hope and tasting of salt.