but it’s Saturday and we’re
here showing ours: broke, tonguethick. Our husk betrays
how close to the surface the tears
may catch in our throats. Outside is stormcloud,
the light, its gloaming from orange to gray.

Life can hardly be free from fear,
from want, from death. And there’s no answer
why. We always knew this.
     
                                                   So,
hungry, together, we suck on butterscotch
and sip Diet Pepsi–each thinking
our own thoughts, each trying.
The sky could burst
at any time.

                        And across the street, the clouds
bruise, and the train pulls on 
behind the treeline, calls
“Woe– woe–” and we listen
like we haven’t heard it all before.