Working toward sainthood this summer solved some of my problems. For one, my daily-Mass-going mother got off my back about getting a job and moving out permanently. Plus, it gave her something to brag ... [+]
In the morning night
When streetlight shadows
Scramble rat-ways
Under parked cars
And rain, down pipes,
Taps the pavement
Like an impatient date,
Then radio music,
Drifting memory-thin
Over rural roads,
Sputters at its edges
And freight trucks
Swish the overpass,
Their beams streaking
Above my windshield:
A caravan of comets.