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Hope & Grace Notes

Everybody’s got hope

even me . . . I’ve got mine,

a kind of hybrid hope

made up of loose ends,

grace-notes, nervy tics,

dreads & desiderata.

Hope: a porridge

that sometimes bubbles

over onto the stove-top

where I slave each morning

bright and new, wiping

my hands on an apron

of anticipation, my brow

glistening, my back bent,

my heart a harvest bee

before my very eyes.