on a cool autumn night as the world changed,
she took a moment
to savor what her hands held.
The lamps were too far away
and above from her chosen perch
to give color to the lawn
as she pressed her palms
deeper on the exhale
into the slick, uneven tresses around her.
Offshoots and roots
braided into thick plaits along
the hill’s dark cheek,
holding its form,
brushing its peak,
framing the earthen face.
If anything living
has earned the name lock,
it's surely a runner of grass.

Down the hill,
where the sun had seen hundreds gather,
a table with a radio,
two lanterns,
and three shadows remained.  

Up a-ways,
under the few real stars the city had to offer,
the foursome sat at the edge
of the gravel and grass
and listened.

Hearing words millions hoped for,
fraught for, rocked votes for.
And in the pauses remembered
the promise of battles long since started
yet long to be fought.

at the turn of the caravan
as the cars carried on
L stood.
His black bike at the side.
His Black fist in the air.

He stood.
until he sat.
so I sat.
He told me his name.  

“I have tried to live
My life in such a way
that I love everyone.
and it’s just so nice…
to feel it reflected back.”

“I’m sorry.”
“You’re good.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re good.”

socks worn through
are ****** or darned
rarely at the same time.

people worn through
are darned or ******
and far too often both.

at some point, not so terribly long ago,
you liked dangerously strong coffee,
sleepytime tea before bed,
and me.

snapped fingers from a wrist
bent behind your back
while the funk worked its way
to your feet.

tattooed a state
you hadn't known
in a decade on your thigh
because it was where you were from.

laughed like an alarm clock
sounding in a dream
from nowhere, jarring,
and instantly recognizable.

and tucked my hand
into your elbow's crook
to chafe my chilly fingers
while you walked me home.

to be frank,
I know nearly nothing about you today.
but we'll always have
those little things.