the air is getting warm
and the sun is down but the fire is on
and he thinks the thoughts
a slow minute before speaking
I have been wilting on a shelf for so long
and a few moments more won’t hurt
I can see the leftovers making
a new home in the refrigerator door
and I have poured the last glass of wine
I’ve even counted the minutes until midnight
and I see a sliver of a moon
I have counted the number of bullets in the house
there are willing hands at the end of these arms
no matter how sore
and you cannot taste the night sky
until I have manufactured a way out of here
and for once
he sees into the
eyes and sense of his past close ones
who were somewhere just like this once
and he is
experiencing the view of a same time
exactly as a mind must perceive it
and the red sauce has all been gone and ate
and only so many hours
before it will all fade
away