Poetry: These days are frauds

These days are frauds

The brass enters slowly
a few layered notes
tightening my body
sending me years in the past
where phones didn’t know your name
and we believed in something worth believing in.

These lights are charming and the
needles spin backward,
black and white and swelling
light and sound and steady
hand signals from before we were born.
Yes, I’ll put you in with me,
anything to keep from being alone.

Let’s make snow angels in sand traps
and laugh at death until our parents
come home.

Come home.