Election Day

Scraps now scraped into the stretched-full white Hefty bag
and Wifey backlit warm in the kitchen sink window rinsing plates.
We end today
the way we end most days, up from the table groaning with a rag,
wiping down counters, loading the washer, too too late
for Monopoly, Risk, another please please play

from Little Bit avoiding the sad crashing weight of 9 times 8 and
chapter eleven of some book bringing a boy-wizard making good.
I spring out the back door
and quick off the back porch lugging stench with a trash hand
stepping assuredly into a black yard with wasted food,
an echoing speech, and more

promise. A red polluted sun sinks low behind sweet swaying trees
dropping leaves like blue dreams, shook free from a waking land.
The night gives up its moans,
sighs, dry eyes, and bald-faced lies. My knees
ache, but they always do when fronts move in. It’s good to be home,
makes easier the day to withstand.