Every morning begins with
the saddest story ever told.
The neighborhood kids
pull triggers between
gasps of laughter.
Birds fall from the sky
one at a time. And we wake
to someone's conclusion,
to a rhapsody,
a trumpet cry of sirens.
As far as tomorrow goes,
it's too far away, but you will be there      
in the middle trembling.
We can say that much
tightening our belts,
metal purring against our legs.
We understand this may be
our last day to speak of love,
to choke on pistachios on porches
with old friends or the girl with eyes
so brown they could be countries
scarred with the richest of soil.

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"If everyone who had a gun just shot themselves, there wouldn't be a problem." —George Harrison