Yard Sale of Thoughts

After a day of captivity,

the sun bleeds out willingly

into the softened sea.

Bass booms through the sand

covering a baby’s cries;

the phonograph finds refuge in our feet.

And when the fire show starts,

we are no longer like the flies

buzzing aimlessly in search of something sweet,

mesmerized by sweat and suntan lines,

and the way the light retreats;

we are humanized.

Enjoying something dangerous, slightly out of reach.

Above all else, we crave surprise.

How does a good day die? you ask

with lips above a Mai Tai.

The slow way, I say.

Like a pocket emptying,

like the last stranger to board an ill-fated airplane.

Nah, the good ones die screaming, you say

with hopeful uncertainty.

©2024 | K.F. Hartless

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