the days grow long and you know you should go outside
to walk in the rain, feel the moon, get a good sun spank,
and sweat in the shadow of shade trees
while children play in the grass
instead, days are long, dawn and noon and sunset
slip between the blinds, clock hands point to gloom
at the end of pen that you use to sign your name
on a piece of paper a boy will find one day
on the way home
it will flap in the street before the pile of a building
where workers with rough hands chip mortar from brick
the boy will try to make sense of the long sentences, the marks,
try to imagine the person the name represents
then, he will drop that paper back into the gutter and wander
off to make his marks
the long days will grow short and you’ll want to go outside
to hear bird songs, run your hands over the ribs of your lover,
kiss children playing in the leaves, rise from the shade into autumn sunset
to step into what’s been dug for you
and dance
Thought it wod’unlt to give it a shot. I was right.