Hope

In the kitchen, we’ve found 

our way again to that stale-

cracker conversation, grooved

and grimed like these sticky

kitchen chairs, uneven, warped. 

The trailing off of a voice, 

muffled traffic through a window.

Dirty water glasses. 

How did we get here? 

Sometime years ago we dropped 

the car keys in a snowbank 

and never bothered to search, 

figuring there would be a thaw. Now 

our life is too often a dank 

and sweaty waiting room 

with only golf magazines.

I think of the back page 

of my tax form booklet 

that says This page 

intentionally left blank, 

lying through its teeth. 

I leave the kitchen. 

Truly blank 

means there’s still a chance, means

a place where God could write. 

I lie down, splay myself 

belly up, thinking 

This page intentionally left blank.

I am Bethlehem, in a desert, 

waiting. (As are you, back

in that kitchen.) Surely

something is coming.

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