I asked where he was from.

“The Districts.”

Body language betrays words

nimble fingers drum upon leather dashboards,

softly singing beneath his breath.

We were singing unto God

(we don’t believe in God)

and unto one another.

Rain etched the window;

cars stagnant in traffic;

District boy drenched

from a walk in the square.

Talk of cosmic conventions

and fabrications

overlap

as the hours intertwine;

suddenly disrupted by the flood flashing

outside.

He tells me more:

a hot air balloon

and hiking through Patagonia.

He likes to climb things.

Why?

“Because the view is better up there.”

He wants to fly;

become an eagle-

if only he could.

I’ve been telling tales;

stories of hair lost in the night

and how kids nowadays

aren’t living right.

A million dollars worth of faith,

and we’re living together;

a cottage near the woods

where the air is full of strings

and we dance and move

(to those fifteen bee stings).

Have you written those letters yet?

Or how about the poem for today?

“We can mail them out

to my mountain friend.”

The post office closed
forty five minutes ago.