no one else keeps promises
as close as I— crows fly in
and convene on the elm, an insistence
of wingspan, black-black-green.
The effort of cawing racks
their whole bodies, swaying
the top of the tree. I know crows
keep the law. I know fate will be
my friend, bear out
my diffidence, live in the void
with my deluded attitude
of permanence, and with yesterday’s
bliss: sitting on the stoop
with my little boys
in the shadow of the elm,
stuffing ourselves with potato chips
as everything turned to glory.
