Maybe I’d be happier
if I believed in something
currently absent
but said to be returning:

Jesus, or America. Maybe
that tug of hope,
forlorn as it might be,
could pull me up.

It is fall, aiming to become
winter soon enough. Then
it will be spring. I don’t need
to believe in that — it’s not

a myth but a fact. Jesus, though; well,
Jesus ain’t spring. As for that other,
it hasn’t earned my belief.
I won’t spend it on such grief

as it has given me. Some think
Jesus and America are one and the same.
I hope for my sake that’s untrue.
I find the devil more credible. 

I know you are shocked. I wish
I was able to believe in your hope.
I know some good people who do.
I’m just not one. I’ve seen things

they haven’t, been seeing them
for over five centuries now.
It’s hard to forget that
and succumb to hope. 

Maybe I should just wait,
depend on spring to pick me up.
If I was sure I’d get there,
I think I could hang on. 

Till then, I’ll listen to you
sing your songs of Christmas
and watch you put your hands
over your hearts. See,

I have learned: regardless
of how much you hope, how much
you want to believe, you must always
keep an eye on where the hands are.