In the morning, Hope visits me. He is wide-eyed and shameless At my door and does not posture Well as those nobler Virtues do. I cannot help myself and let him in. He is a salesman of grand schemes, A seducer of both weak and strong, Accomplice to the ever optimists. I hate his green and tender shoots, Plans rolled up carelessly under his arm, His gross sketches and lying tongue. Across my table now He lays out his glossy offerings, Unrolling, smoothing them With his ancient, newborn hands- And beckons me to sit and have a look. Some are fresh and new, but most So finger traced and dog eared I only need close my eyes to see them He laughs and makes me feel small I pour him coffee, and beg him to stay Maureen C Clark 2009