Poetry
The Daily Disbursement of Sorrow
by Wyn CooperSparks fly from grinders, from steel ground
down, from streetcar tracks that run for miles
past threats not there this morning.
They fly in air too humid to hold them.
The only light’s blue neon, signs
on storefronts that spell NOT YET.
Birds perch on wires thin as pencils,
their claws electric, calls unanswered.
Their yellow eyes tiny sirens.
Five stories down, tubes of light
search subway tracks for signs of those
who eluded the guard, not a guard but a man
who stares at his hands as if they’re phones,
or sorrows, things that connect when held
at arm’s length, too far for sparks to fall from.
