When Next We Meet (Thanks, Mike!)

Next time we meet,
let’s keep our clothes on.

Rather,

let the elephants run,

let them trumpet

their calls

while we sit

hand in hand,

waiting…

Let them run,

distant drums,

beating in resonance,

synapses snapping

an ancient cadence.

For there is no time.

There is no place.

There are no children.

The world grown cold.

We live alone.

Still, we live.

Maybe that’s enough.