This here is a town of widows who remain
for some sort of minimal husbandry—
alone, they find themselves again, right here
in the places that their children have left,
riding the warm words of their ministers
like bakery air right out of the clerestory.
They love the recycling truck, its hi-hat vent
making of exhaust more rhythm than blues,
its bones of glass and orphan lids that sing
consumptive songs at every turn and stop.
The industry that they thought broken down
earns fresh red coats of paint and landmark status.
From glass belvederes atop their second houses
they watch the game of nine-lives on the village green
between tourists and locals with sticks and nets.
The attackmen attack. The defenders defend.
Midfielders mediate. It’s all so simple in theory.
from Void and CompensationFind more by Michael Morse at the library
Copyright © 2015 Michael Morse
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.