As much as I love each waking day
there’s a laying night to match
often empty and these days
clouded with not a star to see
would that I could trade in
all these laying nights for
all the waking nights that
had come before instead
I think we’d both be happier
or I think we’d both be
a little less sad,
at least
Brown paper bags
fat with lunch
crunch inside satchels
and under little feet.
Near the sandpit
with its secret goldmine
of hats and longlost shoes.
Such anticipation
for something so simple,
a red flying fox
and monkeybars
joined at the hip and
looming
tall
ready for use
but when the sun goes down
when skipping ropes
and yoyos scamper home
looming still
and tall
while homeless
dogs quietly
sleep.
the sieve and the sand 