This poem by Bruce Alan Gunther appeared in Issue 1 of The Lakeshore Review.
I slept little that first night
and at dawn the complex’s
yard crew powered their mowers
outside my window, drowning
out the songbirds and everything else.
The unfamiliar walls, the odor
of disinfectant and past tenants,
most of my things still packed,
anxiety as heavy as a lead apron.
Summer suddenly alive,
fire of a blazing sun through
my curtains, all around me
things vibrating as if in celebration.
And my wife, alone in our bed,
her mind made up; too many
bridges crossed and burned,
the future altered, bleak as a dying man.
I swing my pale feet to the gray carpet,
hear a yardman cough and laugh,
thinking that things will work out
somehow, or maybe not.