The sky is
doing that thing it
Does
Hanging there
an orange/grey
A Pathe news
photo from after WWII
I sit and
wait for news
And think
it should instead
Always be
a deep crimson
Always
Because why
not
No call yet
Waiting
for them to tell me if I’m good enough
Like it
matters
Like it’s a
truth of any kind
And the
opening bars of
A Love
Supreme kick in unexpectedly
My soul
picks up a little
I wake up
in New York
A single-breasted
jacket and cigarette
Trumpet
sounds and sirens
The phone still
doesn’t ring
And the sky
stays grey
And everything
else around here
Continues
to follow its lead.