honeydunce

The night is showing up, pulling the streetlight onto the floor to dance. The bulb looks cracked because it’s just starting to breathe. Sky, in between, turns the color of my tea. I’m under power lines, back past the ruckus of young kids on the street, yelling at anyone that walks by them too close. The lone girl of the group shifted her hip, pops her gum—that dissatisfied perfection of youth and boredom, the attention turned to the anonymous. People were crossing the street to avoid their stoop circle, perched on a closed second hand store. Hands in the air at odd times, restless. I assist in the pick up of a spilled bag on the street—the mom thanks me, and the little boy with her asks if I want something. He holds out the black bag in his hands and we all stand there for the presenting. It’s the bag. He wants to give me the bag. The mom says no no, she has a bag. He answers my thank you with a thank you, I’m not sure what that means. I like the idea of nobody being welcomed.

Nowhere to sit and write tonight—I walked the length for nothing. I come back to sandpiper my porch and watch the shadows grow from nothing to all. Rooftop and flight tower, leaf loops pushed apart–the trees and all their little mouths.