You find it in someone’s voice
occasionally—those softened echoes
of kindness, precious bits, pearl or silver.
It’s before the world went off
and made a mask for itself, persistently
short staffed, announcing in a faded
display sign on the crowned surface
of a hostess stand. These days,
kindness sleeps on the street,
will light a bad wick. It defies
the downtrodden, carries rechargeable
batteries. Kindness doesn’t care that I
possess a stupid heart. Inside the restaurant,
ravens, lamplight, shadows splash. Kindness
has a waiter who isn’t here to greet us,
to give out crayons to draw the evening
on brown paper. I love kindness’ vacancies,
the motel of it creeping along roadside.
Its coupons resting in a late-night diner rack,
its glass door holding back a wild wind draft.
On New Year’s Eve, after the champagne splurge,
kindness is empty, everyone’s outside
staring at stars. Burning wood chunks in an urn,
confetti dressing the trees. I douse embers
with water, then watch from my warm home.
Thank you. I’m calm now, cat
clawing upstairs, climbing under bed covers,
the gentle silk of kindness’ exit, light glowing
red out of my window as I fall asleep.

John Milkereit resides in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer and has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. His work has appeared in various literary journals including The Comstock Review, San Pedro River Review and previous issues of Panoplyzine. His fourth collection of poems, Lost Sonnets for My Unvaccinated Lover, is forthcoming soon from Kelsay Books.