an abcedarian
by Susan Vespoli
answered her phone
because I had texted
Can you come help me
do my yard?
every day
for a week. She and her husband and son are
godsends to me. Saints
hauling clippers and blowers and rakes
in the back of their old red truck,
January to December, this
kind crew shows up, whistling as they
lop off tree branches,
machete oleanders,
neaten bougainvillea, trim vines
overhanging block walls and dangling car-
port. Prompt responders to my
queries for ten-plus years – and so, no
response rallied my anxiety,
spurred my dread, amped my
trepidation amidst in-
undation of news reports of
vile ICE squads
whisking away humans. Oh, let them be okay, I
eXclaim to myself over and over—and then they are.
Yes, Maria laughs. Text broke, only voice works on her
zonked phone. This morning they arrive, wave Hola!
Zip their magic.
Susan Vespoli believes in the power of writing to stay sane.
