From the Fishouse

Starting in late February my mother
would cut the weather page
out of the newspaper
and put it on the refrigerator
as a sign of hope: each day
a minute or two more light.

But it’s autumn now.
This week the time changed,
and it’s dark by six.
Think of it as temporary, I tell myself:
an alcove or loft, place
for waiting out of harm's way.

I take my daughter to dinner.
As we sit behind the plate glass
of Shoney’s, the parking lot grows
appalling at the farthest edges.