Hope is the little feral furry thing
that sits on a shelf behind your heart
when the room smells of sweat
and old beer,
and the streets haven’t cut you any slack
since last Tuesday.
It’s the last nickel in your pocket,
scratching against your thigh
while you count your steps to the liquor store
and hope they still sell
airplane bottles of that cheap *****
It’s breath
and a junkyard sparrow,
shallow, ragged,
in the alley behind the tavern,
where neon paints the sidewalk
and rain tastes like ambrosia.
It’s the little bluebird
that keeps your hand moving
over the keyboard,
over the crumpled paper,
even when the specters in the corners
laugh at your obstinate drive.
It’s the click in your brain
that whispers,
Don’t quit yet,
while the world collapses around you,
while nights stretch into eternity,
and the last coffee filter ran out days ago.
Hope doesn’t beg for fame or aplomb.
It doesn’t polish itself.
It slithers beneath the skin,
a little blood, a little breath,
and somehow,
it keeps you waking up.