Trade
Fine, let’s barter then.
My life for an introduction
to the seargeant-at-arms
and ten minutes
in the wishing well.
Alright, but bygone days
may intercede
and not allow
orange soda
and crackers
for dinner.
At least put on socks.
There isn’t a nation in the world
that could make me wear socks
any more than it can
stop the pain from your mother’s death.
True, true.
Too true.
What if we instead sat up all night
and watched it become day and
the pages open on
the familiar and
the echoes and
the after hour pool games
between the sick and the well.
By God, I’ll raise a shot to that.
Oh no you don’t, it’s my turn
and dinner is getting cold.
Words will keep us together 