This mortality shit,
––and time, that passes so swiftly and the dire
sentimentality of it all:
people dying, even
friends
The mirror on her white dressing table
tinged with pink
reflects the sultry sky of an endless
afternoon for those of the living.
You carry on your shoulders
the dense lead of the entire week:
leftovers, sweepings, stains.
What is crooked needs to be straightened,
Ocean you are dark blue today,
because of the sky I guess,
though it’s only a porcelain tea cup pinky finger blue.
But this ocean blue of a particular Tuesday
glimpsed left speeding towards Rossi’s hardware
for three bags of gravel and four fender