Evening Haiku
midnight shadows stir
old regrets softly whisper
ash drifts on cold stone
In Common
We don’t all pray in the same church, but we all wait in the same checkout lines, glancing at gum racks and tabloid lies, half-watching the kid with the runny nose and the old man counting nickels. We don’t all vote the same, but we all curse at traffic lights, get cut off by the same kind of jerk in the same kind of hurry. Then we go home and try not to lose our temper at someone we love. We don’t all eat the same food, but we all sit in waiting rooms, staring at worn-out magazines, pretending not to worry as our name creeps closer to the nurse’s clipboard. We raise flags for different reasons, but we all stand quiet when someone folds one and hands it to a widow. We teach our kids different songs, but they all cry the first time they see something die and ask if it hurts. We build our fences, paint our houses, make what peace we can between the news and the night. And when it’s done— when the breath leaves and the hands fall still— we don’t ask ...