Possessed by Angels

for Jeanne Walker

I believe in them, wherever you say they are,
folded into handkerchiefs, crowding under the beds
of children, eyes bright as water. And where else
they might be�hurrying along your words
holding up planes of glass and lights, their wings.
I don�t mean vowels, I don�t mean anything
but the words come like lines of import,
accompanied, and I almost hear those
syllables get up and walk.

Ordinary Matins

No, I will not yearn
for what I lack;
now that the sun is up
and in my lap
and my fingers hold a cup
that brims with more than morning�
I’ll not despise.

No, I will not burn
for other lives;
a simple slice of bread
can testify
that hours behind and hours ahead
will turn with more than toiling�
and will surprise.

Arm & Hammer

Pure Baking Soda
The Standard of Purity and Quality for over 150 Years

And in the time of cakes and pies
When the kneaded day would rise
Miraculous as dough in the blue-rimmed heaven,
When every kitchen was a home
Where the Arm & Hammer stayed
And the grateful prayer was made
And the daily bread was given

I believed without a doubt
When the orange box came out
(Its bullseye was the arm of a white John Henry)
That as the mixing bowl grew warm
With the spilling of that sun,
Every day would be well done
And would taste as great as any.

In every kitchen I could think
Of where I’d gone to get a drink,
While searching for a glass I’d find baking soda;
And that was just the way it was
For the hammer in the hand
And the funny ampersand–
That every home must have its quota.

I guess our faith began to fail
As our homemade day grew stale,
So we turned to buying pie in a pre-wrapped package,
Then all the aprons fell away
And in a calendar of weeks
Flour sifters were antiques:
Arm & Hammer lost its magic.

Oh everybody knows its name
And its logo’s still the same
But it’s hardly been beseeched since the old gas oven,
Except as grit for cleaning teeth
Or a box absorbing smells
On refrigerator shelves–
Work that has no use for leaven.

Now in the time of pies and cakes
Made by Hostess and by Drakes,
I spread my Smuckers on a slice of split-top Wonder;
The day of rising bread is gone
When the Hammer & the Arm
Was no quaint, nostalgic charm
But our pure and baking standard.