You might be the wife of a POW,

who resumed your old routines long ago.

You might be Saul, stone in hand.

You might be the in-mate chewing

the last bite of your favorite meal.

 

You might be the boy on this end

of the line as she talks to her mom.

You might be the producer of a sitcom

that debuted opposite the season’s new hit.

You might be an impeached president.

 

You might be asking for a loan.

You might be the CEO of a startup

making its first stock offering on Monday.

You might be twelve and have a brain

tumor and took an MRI last week

 

You might have been tested for AIDS.

You might pray with every meal.

You might have applied to med-school.

You might have asked her to marry you.

You might have called the cops.

 

You might be Miss Rhode Island

and just told forty million people

how you would solve world hunger.

You might be the parents of the child

whose photo is on that tattered poster.

 

You might be broke and the mechanic

right now is totaling the bill.

You might be a one-hit wonder.

You might be a poet driving a truck

past bare fields, the radio dead.

 

from As Long As We Need (Black Buzzard Press)

For my thoughts on writing this poem, follow this link.

 

from Angel Face and As Long As We Need (Black Buzzard Press)