“It’s time,” he croaks,
his fever-bright heart
thumping every minute or so.
A glance is cast
to our rain-coated window.
The world has seemed
to take notice of him.
I do not let the word
“now”
slip through my lips,
lugging a question mark along as luggage.
We ride the sidewalk
like a wave, washing up
on our amber hill.
There is a barrier of history
shielding us from the new air.
My voice slides down
its insulating walls.
I will say many things
on this eve to many days
with every part
of my aching being.
He resonates
long after his fire ignites the sky,
carrying him somewhere kinder.