There is still some daylight left,
time, precious time.
Light oozes into the window
between the buildings.
Time left for my conscience to
nag at me, more,
there is more to do, always more.
Night presses in.

I can tell you what belongs where
but not why.
That requires a leap of faith which
interests no one.
We must have science and concrete,
not fairies and magic.
We must have bones and dead things
to measure, diagram.

Dave doesn’t have much time, still
clerking at the liquor store,
cancer in his lungs and neck, he loves
seeing us when we come
in to buy cigarettes and whiskey and
talk about football.
There is only a little daylight left,
time, precious time.