children’s saddle for his thigh
I’m writing this poem
hoping to speed COVID-19
along and away from my lungs.

I look at the large black box
with the yellow lid
the one storing decorations
at the foot of our bed
and I hope.

We hang Christmas lights
though it’s October
swooping across the window-frame
this afternoon it was time

the darkness was staggering.

I don’t want happiness to sit
unused, molting dust
amidst the fearful
crunch of fall

I want to empty the whole box

Prophesy all over the yellowing
walls that this work is not
yet finished, the best and
brightest things eagerly
wait with a cup of hot
tea and I hope.

I hope.