Thursday, June 14, 2007

Song for the End of Lisbon

In the new machine, the days
run from west to east
and time soaks up that first hard drink
we’ve had this afternoon on the street.

The old machine may still complain but
we’ll keep it on the fridge
when closing times and herbal teas
are options in this heat.

The final name we give ourselves
is playing near the swings.
A pen becomes a space-time ship
in its final weeks.

We woke at five on the beach today
And the kids had buried our feet.
At the night the waves still tickle our toes.
And laughter fills the deep.

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