Tampa Street

trains and humming engines
make night symphonies
with the buzzing of
orange street lamps
and crickets

from checkered floors
and diagonal slates
outlooks my new view

routines have yet to settle
like the piles of
boxes and bins
seeking new positions

materials rotate
in drawers
and on wood floors
and slowly
a new abode takes shape

as I learn the scent
and creaks
absorb the sounds
and sights
of my new street

the great shift

He sits
with disappointed eyes
among my boxed things.
He knows
I'm leaving,
but something tells me
she doesn't -
the way she
pushes forward
making things fit,
asking
for help,
following a script.

Last time I was here,
things were different.
Now, thrice removed,
it has come again.
The great shift
of life,
categorized and
labeled.
Removing one home
to try and make another.
Leaving echoes
of existence that
sound out a fear
of letting go.

There's thunder
in the distance.
Rattling where
lasts transform firsts,
where routes
diverge,
and years spent
tending
and creating
memories
wash away
with each
step
towards 3511.

She knows now, too.
And the silence
of divide
is overwhelming.

all right

seems like everyone
talking bout this #catch
maybe it's the directness
or the no bullshit
slips of slight
but that cowgirl
got her straps
on tight
and still
those that don't
disappoint
come to mind
and she sighs
into the great night
relief for the ones
that are
all right