for Alan Rath

Sitting up all night, watching the weather
channel, wondering where it will be nice

tomorrow. Humorous refrigerator
magnets cling to their jobs, yucking the scrim

of 4:00 A.M. chocolate raspberry swirl:
plush stomach of secret snacking and fear.

The garbage groaning, brimming, satisfied
with slop, lies under the kitchen counter

and the counter counts to a million each
day for no purpose but counting. Compost

heap, quivering mountain of everything
that happened yesterday, and yesterday

the jester doing the false dance about
tomorrow. Where nice? Where will the frozen

jitterbug moonlight give way to a sprawl
of possibility? Where will the sun

rain down its warm opinions, its toasty
handshake of wink, sleep, and winter wheat?