The light grows old so elegantly,
Its needing a cane is a style.
Sky the blue of apology.
Pigeons on the fire escape,
It’s May now, as far as possible
From all elections.
No one is running. Even children
Walk as if through waist-high water.
Tired of choosing, a woman
Settles for whatever is
In the cupboard.
Her son could call, you know.
Impossible but I want to be alone
And with everybody, all at once.