A thought you cannot call back,
and empty shoes like
on every road from here to Tucson.
Who will knock their boots against the doorjamb now
and enter shyly?
Who will peel the vegetables?
Pie domes cloud over. Old sugar
makes a kind of weather in there--
Tiers of doughnuts go woozy with collapse.
We deed and we will.
We bow to what providence will understand
and cede the rest: our lies and doubts, our human,
limitations. Probably I should have,
we whispered more than once, shaking our heads.
Probably. Now what’s left of the past
hangs in a walk-in freezer,
and all we know of the present
is a spatula in a coffee can
on a cold grill, pointing to heaven.
From “The Post-Rapture Diner” by Dorothy Barresi. (Pittsburgh: $24.95, 86 pp.) . Copyright 1996 Reprinted by permission.