These are the days.
Cracked engine block.
Sopping summer air,
beads of sweat on beer cans.
Languid lawnchair days.
Days of rumored layoffs.
Days of no future,
of gazing at each other,
actually seeing each other:
wrinkled, bones slowly
softening as the crickets
spend their fleeting lives
serenading us about
their mother the moon, how lucky,
how blessed we are to sit
in the falling darkness
as it starts to rain.