Before Tomorrow Comes

I remember

In the corner store, beneath fluorescent truth,
my father’s hands count nickels like rosary beads. 

Each coin a prayer for dignity, each clink
against the counter a reminder of what
we haven’t saved. The cashier’s eyes follow
our movements like security cameras,
while yesterday’s newspaper prophesies
another round of lay-offs at the plant.

Memory is a stubborn tenant, refusing
to vacate these streets where chain-link dreams
rust in front yards, where spring arrives
not in blooms but in the scent of fresh tar
patching winter’s scars. My daughter asks
why we keep the porch light on all night .

I tell her some moths are worth the electricity,
some darkness needs witnessing to be real.