Men finger pockets,
lick lips, squint into the bright light
of too much possibility.
Women narrow eyes like foxes
guarding layers. The world has become Winter.
They read about growing tomatoes,
generators; watching the headlines
and the skylines, skittish,
Storms in the sun, holes in the sky.
Your father holds his bible,
looking for signs of the beast.
We lean into radios, squint into white screens,
that one half hour after sunset,
when the world is still lit,