By Patricia Spears Jones

Sun light lingers past five, past five thirty.
As if night was a new and delicious meal

Soon the white and yellows flowers will push up
Push out in open air screaming spring

And only the grandmothers will wish for winter
Apartments overheated, children indoors, mostly safe
Except the babies grabbed by many hungry fires
that show up on television news every other week.

The only thing missing is bird song.
Chilly and yet, the harbingers are on the street
Neighbors hanging outside the brownstone
With the huge Ankh symbol in the window

My skinny neighbor upbraids me when I joke
about the belt not holding up his pants.
“I ain’t no hoodlum” he declares
as he pulls up his pants.
“I got a hernia.”