after James Wright
Down the street, the red lit letters
of the chicken joint cut through the dark
like a jukebox at last call.
White plastic bags whirl
across the parking lot to the hum
of their song. The glow of a single bulb
halos the door of the church on the corner, illuminating
spaces between an oak tree’s leafless limbs.
Sounds of a stream
of traffic testify to our drive
for perpetual motion.
I stand on my front steps
and return the night’s gaze.
The full March moon hovers
above the stoplight, big as a planet.
As in heaven, so on earth.
How easily I forget.
Abby Wheeler lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. She was a 2021 finalist for the Great Midwest Writing Contest, and has work published or forthcoming in SWWIM, Grist, The Free State Review and elsewhere. Her chapbook, In the Roots, is available from Finishing Line Press. 
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