John Newlove

One child is back from the doctor's while
the other one wanders about in dirty pants
and I think of Samuel Hearne and the land--

puffy children coughing as I think,
crying, sick-faced,
vomit stirring in grey blankets
from room to room.

It is Christmastime.
The cold flesh shines.
No praise in merely enduring.

The East Village Poetry Web