Hope is that little wild thing,
furry and fragile,
that sits on a shelf behind your heart,
where the room smells of cheap whiskey
and roach powder,
and the streets have been unkind
for a month of Tuesdays.
It’s that pocket full of pennies
pounding against your hip
as you count the steps to the liquor store
in the pouring rain,
hoping they still sell that cheap *****
that tastes like kerosene.
It’s breath and ragged feathers,
huddled in the alley behind the tavern,
where neon paints the wet asphalt
and the rain tastes
like childhood dreams.
It’s the canary escaped from the coal mine,
sitting on the desk that keeps your hands moving
over the keyboard, over torn pages,
even when echoes lean in from the ceiling,
laughing at your stubborn fingers.
It’s the click in your skull that whispers,
Don’t quit yet,
while the world collapses,
while the nights stretch on forever,
and the coffee’s gone,
and the toilet’s overflowing.
Hope doesn’t beg like a stray dog.
It doesn’t glitter like a fake god.
It slithers beneath your skin,
a little blood, a little pulse,
and somehow keeps you waking up.