The days pass
under feet
like cracks in the sidewalk
under pressure
by the traffic jam
of cognition ants
that echos with
the engines on 8th.
They slip our minds
like hair
down the shower drain,
minuscule things that
we can lose
because they seem so
dispensable.
But the old man still sings,
the crows still fly north
toward downtown,
and far away galaxies
still waltz,
out in the cold
and empty,
before you,
now,
and long after.
It is a ****** kind
of gorgeous,
where even the eyes
of a stranger
can help us
to thaw.