The thermos is steaming.
Shared stories of others go
fast like the westward clouds
above the house, lights too bright,
then too dark, telling by night wink
moon light, and in this house,
with walls like a sieve, it is good
to know the wind is not interested
in low lines and winding drives.
The thermos is steaming,
central heating off because chapped lips
are no one's bag. Time is small,
thoughts large. Simple and bragging
other days into sculptures. A museum
begins as talk catches.
Lounging in lion arms,
Roman crowns, Greek wonders,
snow flecked "I thought you died"s
and spectacle adjustment worthy blunders.
The thermos is still steaming.
Bread broken in the mean times,
the good times too. Where did the day go?
Tomorrow is beautiful, a blind date and stat
sheet. Underneath, the little times
spent.
