the door back

I push the dour air with green words
through the cross pattern of a screen door
with a sagging May hooking the birds
to the yard, springs uncoil in incidents
of sunshine and someone's stolen something
We discourage them with the knowledge
of poetry and motion from white house
to white house. from cold city to cold city,
but they find us hope again and again.
I see their prissy youth correct my politics
with a gray diversity of sometimes
pretty young women, handsome men,
crash through the back garden gate,
pausing to pick my roses, and leave
my supposes.