Tomorrow will come
with its handful of snow
or full course.
Forecasters be damned.
Bearers of bad roads,
schedules undone.
In the early morning light,
from memory’s bright purse,
Fore River’s steep crane lords
over ship yard workers carding
in at the gate, lunch pails &
thermos tucked, wool caps snug.
And the collie...
asleep on the back stoop
beneath the peeling Esso
beyond the rotary &
its rotund granite ball.
Fifty years, like that.
Kathleen M. McCann teaches poetry and American literature at