what’s this quiet—
and the smell of new spring
on the porch tonight—
familiar, like that old record
we’d dust off,
and a simple can of Coca-Cola.

the subtle whir of economy cars
a street away,
whispering something—
like everything speaks in your voice now.

-

but the tree blossoms,
the warmed-honey streetlamps—
rusted and true,
don’t listen.
they just sit there.

but me, though—
i might get -just drunk enough- this week,
to breathe it all in,
and mistake this for peace—

jesus, fuck—
”peace”,

like i didn’t get dressed this morning
thinking about you,

-

and this i’ll tell my grandkids of longing.