Yes it made sense: you made sense of it.
You slept with and solved every problem,
etching equations in glass verified
by daylight and the empty space beside you.
The night was your cloudy mind projected –
against it you appointed pointless sticks
to a pointless fire –
your altar to you, but you did it because
Hands you the keys.
A soul should wilt but you won’t.
You’ll drive till the end of time
and when you’re done
you’ll put it back here.
That stone-faced soul
was out when mother and baby
and baby went by,
and so was I
in time for the smile,
that little bit left for me.