One day there was no day.
No birds sang at dawn
because there was no dawn.
We walked our dogs by flashlight.
One day there was no sun.
Through smoky veils of wildfire
we stared directly
at a floating tangerine.
One day there was no noon.
Owls hooted. Porch lights never dimmed.
Deer wandered the streets
blinking tears of soot.
If you can’t count on
day following night,
what can you count on?
One day there was no you, no me.
One day we were we.
Scared. Seeking touch.
Please. Hold my hand.
This poem first appeared in Monterey Poetry Review.
—
Joe Cottonwood’s poetry books include Random Saints, Foggy Dog and Son of a Poet. Long ago he wrote an underground novel called Famous Potatoes and recently the memoir 99 Jobs: Blood Sweat and Houses as well as several novels for children. He lives with his high school sweetheart under redwood trees in the Santa Cruz mountains of California. He has worked most of his life in the construction trades repairing and improving houses.
