Cry a gray river

All day every day their cries 

invade my house, 

cries so shrill they burst 

from souls of souls from all directions, I hear 

the screamers shot, gassed, 

blasted from homes, 

kicked over borders; 

every day I hear 

the whimperers--sick, hungry; those 

despised for some singularity, 

some disparity at birth and then 

there’s the mourners like me 

whose lovers left them. 

What can we do 

after the postcard to Congress, 

after the march, 

after the all-night benders? 

I can say crying a deep gray river will soothe us, 

somehow a gray river of tears

will hold us steady;

and so will chanting 

and so will rocking, 

and so will praying, 

though no one 

beyond the lamp post 

will give a damn but

we can rest.