Dependency

Icy sunlight veins palm trees silvery

pink – sunrise. I am

huddled tight in wakefulness, a hand

pressed to the side of a snoring husband

another tucked under the blankets. He is

sibilant, a deep absence warming our bed, for now

a boundless lump of Not Quite Yet, but soon

a tie, a cheap pair of shoes, a hand for children

with empty arms, hope, and scars to bite

or cling to.

There, in the missing pieces between hope

and despair, between rest and action,

there is where the potential that will fill

tomorrow waits –

A curled hand,

a balled fist,

a teddy bear nestled beside a garbage bag.