Hope Is a Wrecking Ball

Ode to a Machine

The jukebox or the bevel grinder. 
A wheelbarrow.

Things that do their jobs 
when pressed.

A dishwasher, of course, 
is a comfort.

Not like a weedwhacker, 
or a tire iron,

the way a wheel chock 
can keep a secret.

This morning as I razed the onion grass,
I remembered 

how my father once steered the riding mower 
with my sister 

on one knee and me on the other. 
When he left, 

we used our fingers to pick debris 
from the dandelions, 

after someone crushed his 6-disc changer 
with an Easton B5.

Even a baseball bat, after all,
can be a kind of lever,

a fulcrum on which to balance 
what we could not 

shovel—
not hope, exactly, 

but what precedes it: 
a wrecking ball or a Roomba 

a stopwatch or train.

When I Wake My Daughter for School She Tells Me I’ve Ruined the Dream She Had

          Yes, love, I say to her: Don’t I know it?
          And yet. Just imagine—

how much else can be ruined
by love, 

by that which we’ve dreamed 
might love us in return.

          Here, dear, 
          is what I’ve been trying, 

          failing every which way
          to teach you:

          the world is equal parts 
          reverie and premonition.

          Sometimes to dream 
          is to see the world as it could be.

          Sometimes to dream 
          is to see the world as it is

          & remain awake. 

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