idling

There's a thunderbird in the sky, but it isn't doing much, just coastin' on currents for now before the storm.

There's cracked city sidewalks, and dozens of concrete stairs, all built into the soles of my feet now.

There's a city middle with the lights that I actually got to see.

There's a waterfall and politics.

There's gray hairs and lots of leaning on railings.

There's old houses and sunshine, and you showing off a bit.

There's you and me and a thing that seems way too familiar and yet brand new.

There's a thing I want to do but won't and shouldn't.

There's a thing I don't want to do just yet but shouldn't leave 'til the last minute.

There's poetry here but it's just not all there yet.

There's you and me and a lot of sad poetry I wrote about you between us that might have done something to the universe in the space between our bodies and sentences.

There's the possibility, but there's mostly the idea of soaring.

There's a rift in one, a shift in another.

Thunderbird, hang tight. High kicks first, then nothing else can keep us here.