And it’s the boy playing frisbee
with his old man next to me,
And his old man playing too.
It’s the smell of the sweet loaves at night.
The skyrises and skyscrapers
bring partial protection.
And it’s the family and their family picnic
on a Saturday afternoon.
My family and your family too.
The smile of a stranger on the sidewalk
as I walk from the tracks,
And the hope of the uncles gambling with the cold.
The sun and the clouds that cover it
and the moon with its accompanying winds.
The words can only fill so much I tell myself.
It is my daily apple,
lost assortment of pens,
and book that I’ll never finish reading.
My lazy ignorance
or uncanny optimism.
My clover luck,
or surprising faith.
The citric pomelo tea with honey.
There’s a song stuck in my head.
Changing forever with the seasons.