We sit in the grass having come nearly late.
We’ve made our way under the trees, rough
ground cover prickling at our sandaled heels.
The moon is a wafer split exactly in half.
Someone asks, If only one part of the balance
is visible, should we assume the other unseen
is properly accounted for? If you haven’t
been where we’ve been, it’s difficult
to understand what it’s really like.
Sure, the streets are spotless and the hedges
are well-manicured. In this part of town,
the doors of townhouses all have beautiful,
ornate knockers, polished to such a high shine.
But who told you the trees bear only fruits
of gold? I and my kind walk beneath endless
rows of them, stretching our shirts and aprons
to catch what careless afterthought the unseen gods
might lob out their windows. We hold up our heads
and smile at those we meet. We carry laminated plastic
cards with which we provision time, our little dignities.