Stop the push.
Go and look.
Outside
flapper girls flaunt their street gold.
They know nothing of decay
of hanging on, see J. this tree
it’s a jazz festival.
And once I do I can’t
unsee spaces
as pauses for yellow
for the budgies that still sing.
Canned peach will be
sweeter than June,
I miss you in my bed, I think.
