Los Angeles hums <br />a little tune -- <br />trucks down <br />the coast road <br />for Monday Market <br />packed with small faces <br />blinking in the dark. <br />My mother dreams <br />by the open window. <br />On the drainboard <br />the gray roast humps <br />untouched, the oven <br />bangs its iron jaws, <br />but it's over. <br />Before her on the table <br />set for so many <br />her glass of fire <br />goes out. <br />The childish photographs, <br />the letters and cards <br />scatter at last. <br />The dead burn alone <br />toward dawn. <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Glenn Cooper<br /><br />Philip Levine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-unknowable/
