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,
declaring----