i turn to face the
skyline,
pumpkin seeds clenched
in my fist.
a pigeon nuzzles into
itself, one
red eye rolling, a tiny
marble.
church spires prick like
pins;
tent poles, holding the
clouds aloft for centuries.
patti didn’t pick up
the guitar until she was twenty-three
nor robert the camera
and henry didn’t write
anything decent until his hair was already
swooping from the
temples.
i put down the pen and
sink back into the sun.
