Hope.

i woke up
learned,
tired of some sleep,
ready for fall,
August flowers
hanging off
a 1920’s
wooden mantel,
waiting for
new weather,
tasting fresh
coffee,
hoping for
brilliance
in commutes,
friendships,
ideals,
and openness
in modern
minds where
they won’t
find it.
i beg of travel
and good health,
the way
family used to
years before
all the funerals
started
to happen.
i need
better ghosts
to let me know
they exist,
and i need
better
doctors to
tell me
i’m sick.
something,
something
about hope.

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