Despite

There goes the neighbor with the dogs
he's trained to walk alongside him without

leashes, the neighbors in Lululemon leggings,
puffy vests, and fingerless gloves getting  
 
their ten thousand steps in. It's still cold, but 
the man on the corner stops to wipe his forehead 

after vigorously mowing the lawn. The woman across 
the steet parks her van and unloads her paper 

(not plastic) bags of groceries. The brown 
crusty end of a baguette peeks out from one.
 
In the middle of the world's daily burning, 
our desire for something small and good 

has not evaporated. Our hands touch and gather
tiny salvations and bouquets: garlic and lemon,

dill and laundry soap. Someone pours honey
into a cup of tea and stirs, then sets
 
the spoon singing for a second on the rim
of the cup. Duty and pleasure, necessity

and extremity— they come knocking on the door,
sometimes asking to be let in at the same 

time. And all we can do is open, since we've 
known them all our lives and they, us.