Poem, Sunday Evening  

I came to the office to stay
only long enough to write a poem.
I am the only person
in the room.  

I have written words for flowers in bloom;
& about my father, the person
in the few lines of the poem
I will write on this Sunday  

evening. My father taught me
how to work on a car
in case I did not make it
in college. That way,  

I’d be able to stay
employed, & it
would be far, far
better than writing poetry.  

I’m sure he would say it  
if he were alive, but he for
sure is alive,
in my words.

Song birds
sing, because they are alive,
not out of hunger & sing for
sunrise, the way it

comes up over Grider Mountain.