We set it going in the drive
beside the last dirty hump of snow and left it
to exhaust itself. We were our ugliest at that point,
Pale and flaccid under greasy coats. We resolved
to get in shape, to pull it together, to sort it out,
hoping for someday, some warm day, when
We’d sit in plastic chairs and watch the sky melt
to sugary orange beyond the yard trees. We’d see the birds
returning, one on each hip and gable, and say,
Aren’t we lucky?
Meanwhile, the machine bucked lewdly,
enjoying its drawn-out death.
Kristina Faust’s latest poems appear in Boulevard, Rhino, and Washington Square Review. She recently collaborated with composer Jonathan Newman and soprano Fotina Naumenko on Bespoke Songs, a new chamber music recording project.
Photo obtained from Unsplash+.
