PL5 written on the wrapped-green house,
half-built, half-lot,
down from the street from Boston’s last
working
farm
“Please,” utters the spirit, tight-drawn and fragile
as you motor from one encounter to the next.
January looms in the blue-and-white sky,
chills your fingers as you dig gloves from pockets
Unaccustomed to their new location,
all your possessions cry for mercy, comfort,
gratitude
time a gratuity
and your check so small,
it won’t cover the bills
