Never Enough

It’s the hazy kind of night
that can give rise to anything.

The air is pleasantly more still
when the frantic bustle of the world
slows to match the pace of an
at least momentarily contented soul.

We see things in the clouds,
and imagine those things
see us back with the clarity of the gods.

It’s a marvel of porch lights
and telephone poles
and memories of what once was,
knowing full well those memories
are mostly exaggerated lies
we tell ourselves in order to
keep the lamentations to a minimum.

Everyone pretends to have not seen
the money change hands,
but we all know it did,
it always has to.

Breathing in the late evening exhaust,
we board the crosswalk
in search of even more.