← v17n1, Spring 2018
Poetry · Volume 17, Number 1

Swooping through Broken Windows

A few frayed threads, but hardly the worse for wear,

last century’s jacket is slicked with the salt air.

Where it was made they don’t make things anymore.

No worker’s pay cut or the manager’s plea

could budge the addition in the spreadsheet.

Water took the lease, signed the walls with spores.

Now every spring the swallow chicks open wide

for the squirming their parents bring. What kind

of work did the hands that turned the lining find?

Did her children finish school? Start it? The wind

and rain slap at the jacket. I’m dry inside.