Hope is the little feral furry thing
that sits on a shelf behind your heart
when the room smells of sweat
and old beer,
and the streets haven’t cut you any slack
since last Tuesday.
It’s the last nickel in your pocket,
scratching against your thigh
while you count your steps to the liquor store
and hope they still sell
airplane bottles of that cheap vodka.
It’s breath
and a junkyard sparrow,
shallow, ragged,
in the alley behind the tavern,
where neon paints the sidewalk
and rain tastes like ambrosia.
It’s the little bluebird
that keeps your hand moving
over the keyboard,
over the crumpled paper,
even when the specters in the corners
laugh at your obstinate drive.
It’s the click in your brain
that whispers,
Don’t quit yet,
while the world collapses around you,
while nights stretch into eternity,
and the last coffee filter ran out days ago.
Hope doesn’t beg for fame or aplomb.
It doesn’t polish itself.
It slithers beneath the skin,
a little blood, a little breath,
and somehow,
it keeps you waking up.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 1st, 2026 11:16
- Comment from author about the poem: If you’d like to hear more of my work, I recently posted a long-form poetry reading on my YouTube channel — one or two poems from each of my four books, read in a relaxed, uninterrupted session.\r\n\r\nYou can watch it here:\r\nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dY2euFFCXLI\r\n\r\nThank you for reading and supporting independent poetry.\r\n\r\n— Thomas W. Case
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 6
Offline)
Comments2
Hope defined in momentary small wished for gratifications the things we keep going for and wake up for. A lovely means of showing not telling. Nicely written my friend
Thank you.
Good write T.
I appreciate it.
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