52.
Left sweating in the fans echo
while slides of voices grow to water
boots heat up red linings fingers
and the old canteens by the
grown up shovel going to
dig to China and pitch a tent
turn up the wood floor
or roll the ceiling up
against it, breathe the dreams
settle like chocolate or pepper
folk guitars crammed in the shutters
against the wind when
my dog knows better than
to assume that we’ll be left
standing there