Eight, not more than ten,
head haloed in dark curls,
she slept swaddled in a coat
in a dented duct-taped Ford.
And he sat, back turned, cloaked
in a jean jacket, long hair, beard,
on stone-cold steps, bearing
a take-out box and plastic fork.
Can’t you imagine her dreaming
your daughters’ dreams, asleep
in their covers? His thoughts yours?
Remember his sky blue jacket?
Her plaid coat—fields the colors
of grapes and wheat, of sun?
Do you see what I’m saying?
It’s scarcely sunrise, barely spring.
Concrete desert. Concrete sky.
Bare bulbs for stars burning
in the parking under Safeway.
No other soul around, no sound
except my shivering cart,
my engine startled into life,
the judgment of my wheels.
She didn’t wake. He didn’t look.
Dawn the loneliest I’ve seen.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 26, Issue 2.
Michael Barrett grew up in Montana, studied literature, philosophy, and law at Harvard, and currently lives in Seattle. His poems have appeared in Plainsongs, Post Road Magazine (Pushcart nominee), Atlanta Review, Passager (honorary mention, 2020 Poetry Contest), Avalon Literary Review, Lowestoft Chronicle, and Gray’s Sporting Journal.
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