Upon a Sunset Skyline

Maybe it’s the flickering, dying, “D,” in “Rite Aid,”
And the 70-something-woman named, “Kyle,”
Who, instead of retirement, is working to live by minimum wage,
That jabs my heart like a pitchfork into straw hay.

It feels tender.
Not quite sad, though it inches closely to a tearful collapse.
Not quite happy, though it plays tirelessly like a puppy with a sprinkler.
It feels raw.

By, “it,” I mean, everything… All of this.
This body, this mind, this unexplainable experience.
It is the one that writes, “Svec,” on a bag for identification,
Who feels the power, momentum, and trivial nature of its name.

It feels the tenderness of warm summer winds
Carrying pop tunes from the speakers of a passing vehicle,
Singing the song of some stranger’s symphonic story,
And an off-key harmony to complement our passive coexistence.

It feels raw, inhaling invisible night air filled with fallen exhaust
From the jet planes that carry our loved ones away from us,
Collectively headed out of sight, seated together through fate,
Saluted on take-offs and greeted upon landings;

And, occasionally, if we are lucky, we get to see them
Making their mark upon a sunset skyline.

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