How to Deliver a Toast
To those who live in houses on streets
named after shady trees
with those that they share
meals, genes, and germs with.
And to the very old man
at a lake’s edge trying to reach
the stick a golden refused to fetch.
To whatever makes him risk falling in
to reach it, the reason
this particular stick matters more
to him than it does to the dog
who waits in the pickup.
And especially to whatever causes
the man to suddenly pause—forgetting
the stick—as if listening
though there’s just distant traffic,
assuming his hearing
aid can reach even that.
Maybe gauging how much
is left before sound ceases.
And of course, to you
walking past the lit windows
of strangers on Linden Street
rubbing your blood-filled hands
and ghosting your breath
by Daniel Hales
from Poet Seat Poetry