There used to be different words here,
a lawn with benches, a statue of wind.
This is where your hand would go, my
shoulder, a good laugh. We shared
a sixth sense of humor, that is,
we always knew what the dead found
funny: calendars, money, an informed
opinion. Now the birds sing like
car alarms. The bees just want out.
You can push the night around
with your tongue. We do.
We go to the café and order a bed.
We ask for curtains, a notebook, then
blow on our cups without drinking,
blow away. Say, How long’s it been?
When’s it gonna’ be soon? What
we wouldn't give for what we gave.
And this is when the dead start
laughing, when you and I decide
to keep waiting. Let tomorrow cool
awhile, until we’re two other people.
They’ll know if we’re inconsolable.
They’ll know how to drink lying down.