Poem With Its Heart Buried Under the Floorboards
You have been frowning a long time now, Mr. Poe.
For a long time grandfathers & their charges have been
walking from the library into days of black & white.
Large cars move funereally under black trees, black
birds; the sky is white, the lawns white where snow
has fallen. In spite of the snow, nothing is beautiful,
& it is always 4 o’clock on a Sunday, post meridiem.
The floor may creak — a cri de coeur —
but outside two teens outpace a white panel truck
climbing uphill in the slush. For a long time
the wheels have been spinning, Mr. Poe.
Our charges do not hear. Nor do they speak,
their earbuds white as snow.
They have some place to get to & they go.