We are out of time and always
We pick our moment, take it slowly.
Once, the night a crushed carnation
at our feet.
Once, a sequined jacket at our backs.
The rest is secondary highway
and the trees lining it.
The information booth
and the clerk who needs a hug.
The cracked placard shining back facts.
Our questions regard us
from the rafters.
We want to be home
and at least the short-term good.
And in drifts the underdressed season
reflecting both the seconds of history in which we reside
and the rest we need.
Around us, the rain shorts,
One among us braises. Another melts in
the clawfoot tub. And the fumbling
one with the rabbit ears,
the dials turning all static.