Burden

This transmission
is assembled
thousands of times,
but I only turn three
screws and I have no idea
what this automobile
looks like after we
both leave the factory.

It goes on to distant
cities, shipped on
the back of diesel
trucks. Its new owners
park it in the garage,
their teenage son
begging to test
my craftsmanship.

I walk the blocks
home, massaging
my wrist, waiting
only to fall down
before I have to rise
for another day.

My wife looks at
me, and her pale
hazel eyes, nearly lost
in the blossom
of her nose, hold some
unexpressed sorrow.
I wonder what she
is going to say after
she forces a smile
and ask me about my day.

Casting Your Lot

Yesterday, my family
received the news that
my grandfather was dead.
Each preceding week, his

prognosis had worsened,
and his death
came as no surprise.
And today, I grieve

more for my dog,
dead for six years,
than for him, who
isn’t in the ground.

Death reminds man
that he is still alive.
It reminds me
of my dog and

the trouble it is
to love when death is
always hiding. In the dark
alley, or inside yourself.

Foundling

I sit in a small room
awakened from a daze
by the percussion of glass.
A small bird has been
drawn in by the splendorous
light of illuminated bulbs
wrapped around the plastic
branches of my family’s
Christmas tree.

But this bird couldn’t see
the barrier between
itself and the tree.
The promised haven
being denied by a thin
sheet of translucent silica.
Now she lies,
flailing in the bushes.
I bend over to pick
her up, and her eyes look
of trepidation. Or maybe
ecstasy. I am too young
to know the difference.