THERE WILL BE MORE

long walks home, more Come on Eileen on loop
blaring through sunroofs open wide, more plum
lipstick staining the Adam’s apples of the boys
we love, more you hang up first, I did last night,
more sneaking one last kiss before the door shuts,
more cruising through the rich neighborhoods,
Christmas Eve, imagining their lofty electric bills
while Sinatra blankets the air as purely as the snow
we scarcely get around here, more pressing palms
together, finding where our heart lines intersect,
where our life lines end, more saving pictures of
dream dresses for our weddings still many years
away, more learning that sometimes the only real
prayer we have is blind hope, skeletons of faith,
clinging to the promise that there will be more,
there has to be,
we have to get home somehow.

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