What We Know

poem, poems, poetry, writing

The cold is put to shame

By the sun’s rays.

The city rolls toward summer.

I hold a job that blooms in July.

Tell me, where will you be at that time?

Tell me, where will I be?

The most I can do

Is draw a map and try to stick

To the interstate lines.

She still finds the time,

To remind me she is happy.

I’m a romantic as usual.

I try to stand in these concrete streets

Amongst the frost and salt and sunrays.

An individual traveler of the asphalt.

When I look into the faces of strangers

I wish I could read their past.

Instead, I read my own.

After all, all we really know

Is what we have experienced.

I guess that’s why I

Have pen and paper.

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