Find joy in the little things:
the glint of rust on flagpoles at dawn,
or squeak of shoes on desecrated marble.
Imperfections I’d given up on.

How could I not?
Waking up, even my eyes were stiff.

I had been up late rummaging bulbs
to replace what’d gone dark within.

Reaching for the last shelf, my shoulder had
seized. Our history pooled thick in my mind,
a mud, a soreness no massage could clear.

What I should have done.
What wasn’t my fault but was mine to bear.
Each regret a leaf I let die,
piled on a floor in need of sweeping.

Find relief where you can, my friend:
though Epsom salt is no remedy for
what ails, we allow ourselves a hot bath
and feel, long enough, that it is.

On the occasion of the inauguration of the 46th President of the United States