You read to me
and traffic stopped
doesn’t matter anymore.
Rain, staggered flares, and flashing lights
are only there.
You read to me and now I see
doors filled with unwashed children
whose hungry eyes swallow the impatience
to either side of me.
Time goes the way of clouds over the moor
as we consider Swift’s solution for making societal use
of the too many poor children.
You read us down from three lanes into one—
into the line of red taillights heading
for the horizon, black with December snow.
And lifted on the lilt of your voice,
To my daughter, Melissa