We, the stray cats.
We take the moon
into the middle of our brains
so we look like roadside stray cats
with bright flashlight-white eyes
in our faces.
It's Friday night and we're sitting under a street lamp,
this slowly becoming our ritual,
both high and howling and spent
with no real ideas of when or where to run.
We linger on the city fieldís green edge
and say, someday love, none of this will be ours,
for disappointments are all around,
and it sure will fuck us both,
but there's nowhere else I'd rather be.
Weíre not so much homeless
as we are home free,
poor but plenty lucky for wonder
and plenty lucky for fireworks
which will break the fall in the days to come.
And here it is:
the new way of living
with the world inside of us so we cannot lose it,
and we cannot be lost.
You and me, are us and them,
and it and the sky.
Itís hard to believe we didnít know that before;
itís hard to believe
we were so hollowed out, so drained,
only so we could shine a little harder
when the light finally came.