Graveyard Shift
A drought all of April,
I’d left the windows open,
but overnight, May thunderstorms
wettened the toile curtains
and made them limp, and left stains
on half-rolled window shades
I knew I’d never get out,
old, yellowed, and crinkly
hard paper that they were.
I found comfort when children
wailed their first morning cries
and dying newspapers slapped
driveways of houses down the street.
Swallows that used an old
irrigation pipe to raise their young
circled looking for insects.
Ravens that the day before
raised one foot at a time
on the asphalt now danced
in four-four time and lolled
in puddles formed in potholes.
As I look from the driveway, I know
someday you and I will dance like this,
when pumps are tapped but dry.
You will greet me from the graveyard shift
and we will pour my remaining water
still cool in the steel-clad thermos
into the tin metal basin on the porch
and rinse our feet while the ravens soar.
Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California, spending the seasons dodging fires, floods, earth-shaking, and all the other scrambling life-initiatives. He has contributed to Heartwood, Tiny Seeds Journal, Vita Poetica, and Willows Wept Review. He has a chapbook for free download at Red Wolf Editions and a second chapbook available from Red Bird Chapbooks.
