After breakfast checks the boxes,
bends at the belt to see if they’ve been checked out.
Twelve block walks like clockwork,
dreams of slow motion shooting stars.
They said words never got nobody too far.
He never had the words for them.
Disheveled hair left from yesterday’s war.
Next door gossips “he’s in a daze, bulletproof, or more”
He floats, he exists this way.
Dug inside, sought different plains.
Walks right through a red stop sign
preaching, “feel alive”.
Songs, skips, he feels alive.
Strolling, thinking in the street.
They water stars.
We water flowers.
We talk to wind.
They drop answers when we need them
and cleanse us when we’re ready
Strolling brings up music, thoughts of her
and paths together, and what if they were.
Wrote bump in the road, always wrote the right thing.
Too late to write come back around? Now?
Unwinds his eyes to find the words were checked out.
Purple binding gone, those people were wrong.
Twelve block walks like clockwork
and slow motion shooting stars.
Skipping, thinking across the street.
Stopped when his mind took off on its own two feet.