perched like crows on telephone wire,
we patiently watch street cinema
of a suburban nightmare;
cars move by with a celluloid flicker.
bar fights, children, leaves browned
by the season, motions of life
repeated again and again
shifting against the threat of new time.
aging’s on the precipice.
strange objects now familiar
beg us to kiss already.
“how many sunsets can you count together?”,
a wandering thought surfs to us. i do wonder
how many sunsets we’ve counted together
and i ponder if, when fevers blister your skin,
i’ll be the one to move soup
into your baby bird gape.