The Day Is Its Own Trouble
“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.”
—Matthew 6:34
Dad always said you buy the poorest, smallest house beside the rich,
though he never crossed the line himself. When he was six
he drew on stiff construction, in Crayolas, a house of brick with sticks
resembling…he knew it when he saw it: HAPPINESS, notwithstanding
cities where he lived, the misrule of the banks. SUCCESS—in hand
until evinced, vanquished by the rents. How to stand the straw?
How to keep the water boiling? Hefties hold the line between the chain link
and what’s left. The year before, the ex-wife took the girl. Pots, pans.
His Civic in the squeeze between the take-out wrappers bottles cans.
Born in Tokyo, half Japanese, Kathleen Hellen has won prizes from the H.O.W. Journal, Washington Square Review, and Washington Writers’ Publishing House for her collection Umberto’s Night. Hellen’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Barrow Street, The Boiler, The Carolina Quarterly, Colorado Review, jubilat, New American Writing, New Letters, North American Review, Prairie Schooner, Subtropics, The Sycamore Review, Verse Daily, and West Branch, among others. Her credits include two chapbooks, The Girl Who Loved Mothra and Pentimento. Hellen’s latest poetry collection is The Only Country Was the Color of My Skin.