There were meadowlarks in my youth,
but I know I’ll see them no more.
I think they were barrel-chested,
like feathered harps, but I know for sure
they were the gold of rod and rye,
and their call was the lilting of summer.
I fear, though, that I have them wrong,
these birds I loved. But it’s too late
now to know—too late came too long ago.
If only this were all there were to mourn,
this indifferent plucking of the sky,
but fires are now leaping from car to car
to car on the highways, and the shadows
of men hawk mice and dazed lizards
along the berms of the clotted roads.
Soon the sun will blot itself out
with the ink of ravens. And poems?
They’ll be as useless as pennies.
This poem first appeared in South Florida Poetry Journal (2023).
—
Kevin Grauke has published work in such places as The Threepenny Review, The Southern Review, Quarterly West, Ninth Letter, and Cimarron Review. He’s the author of the short story collection Shadows of Men (Queen’s Ferry Press). Bullies & Cowards is forthcoming from Cornerstone Press in 2026. He teaches at La Salle University and lives in Philadelphia.
