wears that job to be done look
though everything’s gone to hell
in a handbasket—or strapped
on a backboard. In disaster
look for hands making a roof
over the face against a weather
of despair. So many blows. Wind
drove fires right to the door.
Theft had enough votes to win.
A missile, empty this time, rose
more than two thousand miles
into space, above the face
of the deep. There is water,
not ice, in the Chukchi sea.
Monday night a player made a hit
and couldn’t get up. He tried
moving his legs. There are jolts
the backbone cannot withstand.
Then what, the driver in blue?
Yes, him with that face offering
no clue of what he thinks or feels.
When he gets the signal, we’ll go,
and I’ll take his indifferent glance,
his holding the wheel with both hands
as we head for the emergency room,
or whatever grief it is we’re coming to.
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Matthew Murrey is a poet whose writings have appeared in various journals such as Tar River Poetry, Poetry East, and Rattle. He received an NEA Fellowship in Poetry a number of years ago, and his first book manuscript is seeking a publisher. He is a high school librarian in Urbana, Illinois where he lives with his partner. They have two sons who live in the Pacific Northwest.
Photo by Daniel van den Berg.
