Fortune

Deafening jackhammer echoes sound
through the garage, ricochet off concrete
as I walk to my car.  In some other place or
even here some other day, the repair sounds
could make me fly for cover, shield
my face from raining glass.  But I
am blessed, swaddled in a place of
bags bulging with ripe fruit, fresh meats,
no insects buzzing at my children’s eyes. 

From the beginning the question is
the end, the answer, faint and personal,
already visible in the nursery nightlight
throwing tall shadows on the wall
behind the crib: who learns to crouch,
breath held, at sudden sound, who takes
for granted a garage might need loud
repair, whose shining food is cut
to size by unseen hands, who is
born to scratch at barren earth,

Read more poems here.