Late September, Poland
I take a walk along the river bank—
like usual, I want to say. How quickly
we adapt to what is new and claim it.
Likewise, back at home, my children
argue, laugh, and argue. They are
finishing their schoolwork, they
are doing anything but finishing
their schoolwork. This has been
the first full week of nothing but
gray wet, and I have to wear all
of my clothes to leave the flat.
Tonight the bare-branched trees
along the water raise their limbs
to monastery bells, while raindrops
tap against my jacket’s hood.
A friar in black is talking softly
to himself, or praying. Possibly
he’s on the phone. I press my feet
against the dampened pavement,
pause to listen to the speechless
city. When the sun sends out thin
reaches of rose, then—one
by one—the streetlights flicker on.