i thumb through my borrowed photographs
of borrowed things and think of the
day, that we spent hour upon hour
of borrowed time
of borrowed time
plundering through that trunk
past junk, and forgotten souls from the deep
near blown away by the tumultuous hot winds
of the ceiling fan;
outside, the winter sun made its last gasp
as did picnic plans, though we hardly noticed –
we were weathered fisherman, waiting for the perfect catch.
we never quite found it, but
the childlike fervour with which we searched
made perfection seem a possibility.
