in the middle of a song.
walking up the hill.
eating peanuts from a brown paper bag in my pocket.
and just throwing the shells on the ground.
hearing every mouth on every face talking about explosions in Boston.
what do you when everybody on the street
is singing like it’s Sunday?
it’s Monday.
and all I can do is kickflip the sun.
and eat nachos and read poetry.
no, it's funny Tuesday.
we are the time.
but no one seems to give a damn.
until something…