It starts with a pain in the small of the back 
then shifts to the small of the night.
Poems heal in time, not in spite,
but at 3 am no sleep in sight
and the world moving right to ruin 
every pain, not dulled by intervention,
might as well be a poem. 

Even the light of day will dim 
as bright shields we hurl in space 
promise to reflect the blasted sun,
cool land and sea, make it all alright.  
So this could be the way for us
here on earth:  Turn down 
the heat our bodies make--our minds.
A pill will make what‘s brilliant dull
and all time’s hurts will dissipate.
Only then will we dance as one,
hands pinned to our sides
neat as a page of butterflies.

We have competed hard at the ground
and at the end of the day 
we’ve agreed to the conditions we’ve found here,
by virtue of little virtue of our own.
Still, he believes there’s redemption,
even when there’s nothing to trade.
She, however, will submit her resignation, 
effective the end of the day, 
but will never be resigned.
 
At the end of the day, poor is not a color
yet we will reap what we sow.
The cows will come home,
and the piper will be paid,
but would you please put the cat out
and let me know the results in excruciating detail.
We can never be sure at the end of the day 
what we'll need when the sun goes down, 
or exactly what we're here for...