A simple concrete step, a stoop; it is just a step, a stoop
Until it is associated with memories of sitting, watching,
                             and waiting.

Watching life as it parades past; neighbors, strangers, cars,
things that are blown about.

All become associated with that well-worn act, repeated with
                           religious devotion,

Of spending time on a simple neighborhood stoop.

Mortal beings like caulk
Flaking with time and use;
Like artists blowing away dust,
Dusting away brief accumulations -
These moral beings. Transactional movements.

On a Sunday, the world stands still and silent;
No traffic sounds reverberate from the distant freeway;
No people milling around the parking lot.

On a Sunday, you can breathe, and hear the birds sing.
No lawns are being manicured, that happens on Saturday.
Sundays are lazy, laid-back, laconic affairs.

If you want to fly give up

Everything that weighs you down.
Otherwise, you will remain on the ground.

It’s not about how high you fly
But how long you can stay in the sky.

Try

And, even if you fall and cry
At least you had flown.

It’s not about how high you fly
But how long you can stay in the sky.

Try

So, even if you fall and die
At least you had flown.

Ducks and geese and floating feathers
Falling amidst the shimmering sparkles on the bay;
All to the tune of children’s laughter
As they spin and twirl and play.

When I see you again

I'll choke back the years . . .

of fears
of tears
of needing
of wanting
of not having
of not knowing

And you will explain
What actually happened.