The storm veered north and missed me.
On TV an insurance man
goes among twisted joists,
discerning wind damage from flood damage.
I read an article on over-mothering,
how it leads to long, gray days.
Better to permit cartoon violence.
The election is over.
The right people have won.
To avoid mass misery, Pascal says,
one must learn to sit alone in a room.
A poem comes to me,
but the words aren’t in the right order.
No children are mentioned.
On my three-lap jog around the block
I find a nest blown from a tree.
Inside a tiny bird skeleton,
same color as the grass.
Rebekah Remington’s poems have appeared in Linebreak, The Missouri Review, Ninth Letter, Hayden Ferry’s Review, Blackbird, and elsewhere. Her chapbook Asphalt (CityLit Press, 2013) was selected by Marie Howe for the Clarinda Harriss Poetry Prize. A recipient of two Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Awards in poetry, Remington lives in Catonsville and works for the Baltimore County Public Schools. (5/2014)