We drown in the details—
what to bring to potluck,
where to meet for coffee.
There’s a Starbuck’s on the corner
where we once sold lemonade,
our homemade sign coming apart
in an attic somewhere.
We sift through the rubble
for the precious thing we lost
when the future rolled into town
on a bulldozer. It plowed into our plans,
burying them under stories
of glass and brick
but nothing much changed.
Look at the way we connect now,
all scribbled skin and logistics.
We still lift our heads
when a foreman’s whistle blows,
but slowly, without expectation.
We stand close, on the verge of moving,
held back by the strong-arm of routine.
Last week another crew packed up
and headed out. We followed for a few steps,
but it gets dark so early now,
and it’s easy to get lost on a map
re-drawn in our sleep.