Hope, that feathery thing,
has been plucked bare.

Why then, do I still dress,
buy groceries, pay bills, and fret

over a friend's nervous heart,
or an old dog's weak legs,

clear her path, feed her Cheerios?
Why praise green tomatoes on the vine,

savor morning coffee and applaud
the musicality of words, amazed

as a waif learning to read
street signs? Yet ... I worry.