Maybe Sunday

We throw conversations into phones,
pretend they make us flesh and bone,
it feels my blood has turned to dust,
the air smells like it's full of rust.

As if
there was
some hope,
of life
becoming
to cope
with me.

Remembrance is all we have left,
of days whose nights we took as theft,
fences surround houses next door,
leaves cover feelings I ignore.

My mind
wraps
around,
one idea
full
of sound
for you.

Prompted by my request,
maybe Sunday, was just said,
people take the streets to get,
all sorts
of odds and ends,
all types
of little gems,
keep waiting for some reward,
that maybe I cannot afford.