In places like these, the Christmas lights will always stay up
year round— framing bare trees in fuzzy reddish glowing.
Wishes are wrapped in Gouda and basil and star clouds.
He only likes talking about what is happening now.
I only like talking about what’s happened before.
He asks questions I don’t or won’t answer…
except for one about the old man and his
motorbike parked in the tree shadows.
I say that this might be the last decent
meal we eat on this too long street.
Sometimes there are blue dogs.
There are always wet dogs.
Pine nuts love pineapple.
Bacon loves coconut.
Apple loves soda.