Shall I give up on salvation
And suppose the unit of life isn’t the self.
As I always assumed, but the twenty houses
That comprise my block? Which house puts in the hours
Required each month by the block’s one conscience
Won’t be the issue then, as long as the slot gets filled.
A comfort then to wake before dawn
And glimpse through curtains the light
Already burning in my neighbor’s study.
Proof that the block’s quota of early writing
Is on its way to completion and I can sleep in
Or drive to the farmer’s market for groceries
Since shopping too is a category- of useful action
And spaces are still blank on the sign-up sheet.