And there, on the to do list,
somewhere beneath “post office”
and above “pay the bills” is a single word
not yet crossed out. “Peace.”
You’ve written it in ink, as if
to offer it permanence,
an urgency that can’t be erased.
Every day, you look at it,
wondering if this is the day
that goodwill will come as easily
as changing the burned-out lightbulbs
or taking the garbage out.
You almost stop believing
you will ever cross it off.
After a while, it might seem
just like any other thing
you write on your list, then ignore—
like clean beneath the piano
or organize the garage.
But then the news will shake you,
will render your duties
small. And you’ll write it in
at the top of the list
in all caps, underlined in blue,
PEACE, not something to do,
but something to serve,
something to practice
as you move through the day,
something to inform the way
you fold the sheets, you drive
to town, you attend the meeting,
you make the call, you write
the letter, you do what must be done.