Terrible for all the days there
is nothing a fortune teller can see
Between sundown all the way to marching into our
last breath.

Waiting, we shall watch, foxes all,
like calculating merchants ticking out pennies,
wiping our counters, holding onto towels moistened
by water dripping off the glasses of laughing diners.

After hours we walk out the kitchen door,
sit down on a stool in the alley way,
in the glow of the low tangerine sun.
Exhausted, we are, from dreaming all the day.