IT’S TEN P.M.

… and I don’t know

where my children are     they

have hurtled the fences     wandered

out through the open

gate owning

themselves     now

I feel around

in empty pockets     rummage

in cluttered drawers     count

pennies I’ve collected     the sum

is staggeringly small.

        Why is it we believe

        the lies we tell

       when comforting ourselves

       to sleep:  time

      and change extract

     a reasonable cost.

Beside the window watching

shadows rearrange

the empty street     it’s ten p.m.

and I     not they     am lost.

  • Susan A. Katz

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *