It’s hard to write a poem
the day after Christmas
with guests in the house

reading in the living room
to music you won’t hear
for another year, their baby

in the guest room swaddled
in coats. Easier after
a heart-slicing argument

with the wife, seeing a tsunami
swamp an island, or hearing
all about the new Macbeth.

The medieval carols swell
like crystalline bells, like wind
in a belfry, or children sighing.

Pages rustle slowly, like a hand
around a shoulder, and I open
a book, its ink still sweet.

Categories: The Grind
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