Saturday 7:30 am:

The hummingbird on the Plumeria

mourns us lingering at the sill,

restless behind latched doors.

Everything seems beaten

as if to say: clear the way.


Saturday 9 pm:

Steps indoors plan their chaos.

Our nights, bolted, thin

and fragile, breathing.


Sunday 8 am:

Parks peeled off little feet.

Skaters, stumps, goal posts

packed and stowed in cabinets.


Anotherday 10 pm:

Reports double. Locked,

we stream our viability.


Yetanotherday 2 pm:

We dream with netflix,

tik-tok, tenors and e-zines.


Oneday 5 pm:

The breeze blows

past burly concrete,

caresses our palms,