Maranatha

The sumac red and the maples firing like painted sunsets
on smoke-stained canvases, it is late October.
It is 8:30. Dark arrived three hours ago.
All clocks have clicked back to an unsaved hour.

Above my fence and willows, the college football field
glows, each leaf a private perdition against the black.
Each yellowed leaf warms a steady northern breeze.
The game ended in loss. The crowd splits into cars.

I am standing in the middle of my yard. I just dropped
the plastic bag of kitchen trash in our green dumpster,
and I had to stop the short walk back to the porch,
a moment of breath before what’s left of life cedes

to what’s to come of death. I am at halftime.
Inside, wifey finishes dishes. My daughter chews a pencil,
puzzled by perimeter and area and simple formulas.
Yesterday, she asked the dimensions of heaven.

I couldn’t answer her, and even tonight the clouds
overhead block what twittering and twinkling
might be happening out past where God claims
his city limits. I am tapped out and tired.

I once found tiny births in every detail. Now, I press
on eyes for a simple gold flash, a cheap muse
on mornings that refuse to turn to day. Coffee
fails to impress. I find comfort in traffic.

Each commute I half expect to find love in the car
idling next to mine. Maybe a half glimpse
with a second look could make her flip her hair.
I’ve always heard that’s a sure sign.

Lately, I pray without ceasing, but my prayers
are solely selfish. I rarely praise. I don’t reflect.
I see the worst of people where I always tried
to hope for the best. I settle for disappointment.

Given situation and time and a cruel teacher’s wish,
my daughter could measure my soul’s depth by want.
I confess I want. Alone in my yard, tonight, I want
more than the yellowing of leaves and noticing it all.