Be that motel in the outskirts of history.
Hold a vacant room for us on the rainy Tuesdays
of adulthood. Let us sit on your bar stools
whenever we’ve forgotten the name
of a stranger who’s shown us a minor kindness.
Let us converse with no one but ourselves.
Account for the selves that once were alive.
Then tell them of the world and its newest stories.
Of the infinite shapes of sky,
the quiet evenings that await,
and the love songs we still sing in our sleep
we have yet to write.