Far flung suburbs
Sprawling past my fingertips
Damp dew air in my nighttime window,
Know what I mean?
Today I asked:
“So what is a typical day.”
Already I am trying to swallow this away:
There is no such thing as
typical.
But everyone has all these
things to tell me,
about all the hitches, tiny epiphanies, and what not that
color their day.
They want to
trade days, incorporate me.
Mundane and paychecks.
What is the highest place in a city?
Where the blooms tumbles over the gates.
There are people to call, but I write letters,
let the words tumble, no need for a quick response.
Summer delays.
The phone conversation is quick because
I am almost at the
bridge. The fleeing
sound of cars
is enlarged as I enter the tunnel.
My mom and I have the same conversation every few day/
repetition is a sunset.