#3 The Joy of a Lukewarm Sunset

I wrote a poem yesterday. I hadn’t been home early in a number of weeks, now I crave its peace.

the sky is the same everywhere

except perhaps, with the clarity of a room
whose windows finally open
while the cat lingers outside.
beyond, see a muted hue so
lukewarm it wants to be known
for nothing, not for instagram
not made into paint or art — except, say
into words. the sky is the same everywhere
except perhaps with the simple
frame of a block cleaned of intricacies
defiantly so, prefabricating unto
itself a reason for stillness, rest at
least until they paint it
another latent shade of gray
the sky is the same everywhere
except when i am finally home
before the guard changes shifts
before the dread of a ticking night befalls
before the blues disappear
for artificial light

—

Thanks for being here.