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Sunday |
 |
 Stoop sitting 4:30 a.m.
the party never ends but if
I make it home by 5 I can wake Sarah to watch the
lunar eclipse so
I ride like a butterfly--or were those feathers on my grandmother's dress?
They could have been eyelashes. Like a bat I flap down deserted streets.
We watch the shadow of the earth with us on it nibble the moon down to half
its size, binoculars and vanilla ice cream, barefoot beneath a lightening
sky. Lunch at The Dock, or was it beer for
breakfast and an argument, Monte's new pliers and
patterns in wire? Either way, all is forgiven at
the lake, a Hi-Bounce Pinky for 50¢, Generation
Wet, humans play fetch, an ice cream sandwich. There's a time every Sunday
when time seems to stop, friends around a table not saying much, ready for
bed but the sun is still up and just down the street
new energies gather,
another turn of the wheel, drums & heat, the moon veiled by leaves. We're
there to watch--as if we needed a reason--a goat go up in smoke. Like us,
it stands longer than anyone expected before slowly collapsing in a heap.
Or was that just me? |
