CALL ME BELOVED

it must get easier than scraping windshields,
than blustery gray mornings and holes in your shoes,
than the creases and folds where the wind slips in.

it must get easier than the passive silent rage,
the feeling that grave things are passing you by,
the bed of disappointment you fall asleep in.

I toss and turn at night, the sounds of tires
calmly whirring past and kicking up sleet and salt
onto the sidewalks, I think, there must be a kinder way.