a poem by Judy Swann
Not Coming Back
and sedate red vests, their turquoise nest eggs,
jobs that pay the mortgage are not coming back.
Jobs you can walk to are rarer than worms
that win against the bird's strong beak.
Life-of-the-mind jobs do not spring up,
are wrapped in sheets at the new green cemetery
to rot in the ground like roots of an old stump
outside the box, chemical free, unmarked by stones
a few mourners in mittens holding back their tears.