The gaze-locked earth and the sun
Will conspire, I am sure, to dazzle
The twenty-second of august
Into relentless beauty.
It will be a lime-green, crisp, ironed day,
The kind that mothers give their daughters
And lovers imagine being each day.
Rejoice.
But remember, it is as likely to be muggy,
It may twitch with impatience and gurgle
Slight remarks out of a hopeless, sour belly
That the overweight, sullen phone will echo.
The walls, the wilting flowers,
The acerb, expired red-mud of the pickle-jar
May be your only witnesses to this injustice.
Rejoice, regardless.
It may be that on the suspenseful,
Letterless, text-less, tastless dawn
All you will have will be a kettle
Blubbering with compassion and clarity.
There may be a burnt toast with it,
If we are lucky.
Remember, my older, elder self,
Remember we have spoken of this.
And I am with you now
Exactly, precisely, seamlessly
Thirty-one days in the past.
As I will be with you,
Cheek to cheek,
Thirty-one days in the future.
