Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Song for the End of Lisbon
The warm days run from west to east
in the new machine,
and time soaks up the first hard drink
we’ve had on Prata 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.
The kids had buried our feet.
At the night the waves still tickle our toes.
And laughter fills the deep.
The warm days run from west to east
in the new machine,
and time soaks up the first hard drink
we’ve had on Prata 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.
The kids had buried our feet.
At the night the waves still tickle our toes.
And laughter fills the deep.
// posted by George Manka @ 10:33 AM 
