on a sunny Sunday hill,
appreciating even the bugs,
having some coffee,
and smiling at the sky,
wondering why.
about it all,
about me in the new,
and you in the old cold,
reading this bullshit
from your East 27th street,
I forgive you.
mostly jokes,
but I don't mind building
bookshelves of lumber
and lost love,
because the future
is propped on the past.