the clover greens in the first real heat
of the year. I want to believe
in a Saint who stuck a stick in the ground
and threw forth a tree. Shade, I pray
for the aging maple outside the kitchen window
and corned beef in the oven.
Think of how much time we spend hoping
things turn out well. Last night
at the bar next door, an older woman
sang “Landslide” with enough sincerity
it broke me in half. I told my friend
“Isn’t karaoke sometimes the saddest thing
in the world?” Did he hear me? Did he see?
And did she, singing, deep down,
crack her bagged-bottle-of-bad-wine heart
on either side of those words
I know you know, too? Some theories
suggest there were two St. Patricks.
What luck. What perfection in the muted
white lace of a clover leaf. The world looks
to be ending these days, but we’re toasting
a man who chased snakes into the sea.
What sounds the waves must have made
that day. What a sight to see them
out there, swimming toward the sun.
