The Sky is a Bruise Today

The Canadian wildfire smoke

has emigrated into America—

as if the trees up north

are finally tired of being silent

and have sent their smoke

to choke us awake.

The sky is jaundiced and sulking,

like a body tired of holding itself together.

It mirrors my head: heavy,

thick with the resin of unfinished thoughts.

I check my calendar—

a battleground of little obligations

and brightly colored blocks

that mean nothing

once the day ends.

I mark each one complete,

but feel smaller,

like I’m shrinking beneath the weight

of all this invisible labor.

At the office, the coffee is hot

and indifferent.

The air conditioning sighs.

We wait for someone to say

something true,

but instead, we rotate chairs

and rehearse our roles

in the quiet tragedy

of staying alive

just to see

what happens next.

I listen to a podcast—

some man with a voice like gravel

talking about the good ole days,

when rotary phones

and vinyl records

meant something.

I’m not sure if I believe him,

but I keep listening.

I want to believe

that the past is a place

we can visit

without losing ourselves.

There is no reward yet

for the work.

The A.A. promises in the church basement

echo like bad acoustics.

I write gratitude lists

and burn them in my head.

I sweep my side of the street

and still feel filthy.

Maybe that’s the work too.

But this afternoon,

I will play golf with my sister—

she will slice the ball

and laugh like she used to,

and I will forget for an hour

that I am tired of hoping.

There will be wind,

and grass,

and our father’s ghost

in the distance,

clapping for no reason as

I use his twenty year old clubs.

Until then,

I’ll sit in the smoke

and call it

a kind of progress.