Arising again, the sky goes from a blackish dotted blue to some kind of powdered tone of navy.
To cerulean with a band of dusty haze down low.
And the truth blows from back to forth across leaves that dance on ends of branches that barely notice.
Wondering how it’s all paid for and coming up with nothing.
Knowing deep down you’re being paid by the millisecond.
Paid by Jupiter as an airplane growls above it.
Paid by trash trucks who clank in the distance.
Paid by an unyielding lamp post that drips out bands of light energy to anyone and any thing willing to cash its offering.
Paid by the demanding and monomaniacal crows.
Paid in the oily blackness of their feathers.
In the zealousness of their misunderstood pursuits.
Paid in the coin of the realm – a how-de-do from the morning walkers.
Constantly paid to shut your trap and play along.
Giggling furtively in another vacation from death.
Cups that run over like ice plant and honeysuckle slowly spilling down an embankment below homes that face the sea.