This poem appears in the Spring 2020 issue of Modern Age. To subscribe, click here.

Some people seem to live within a zone of grace.
I’ve never met a saint, but they’re like that.
Nothing can disentangle from that place
Those lassoed there by love’s loose lariat.
I watch such with amazement. I’d name names,
But that would seem to violate the very
Terms that underlie their gentle aims,
And I’m no counterrevolutionary.
He lives his life for a disabled son.
She always seems to know just what to do.
He raised those kids as if they were his own.
Her kindness seems . . . no, makes her own joy true.
That’s all I’m going to say. You know the rest.