The Other Side
On the other side
we have no bodies
but we drink Pabst Blue Ribbon
in rickety lawn chairs
on your front lawn.
Don’t ask me how it’s possible —
it just is.
Like the sun
always in mid sunset
and the pack of cigarettes
on the table between us
never runs out.
Here we smoke all evening
because we have no lungs.
And we laugh
until our non-existent stomachs hurt,
laugh as loud as we want
because the neighbors don’t complain —
they have no ears
and only hear what they want to hear
like choirs of crickets
heralding the night,
owls in the trees
ruffling their wings.
Eternal Indian summer
with just a whisper
of winter on the wind —
that is what we feel
on our translucent skin
to remind us when seasons changed,
to make us believe
time will come to an end.
There is nothing to see here
but the rabbits chasing
the last threads of the day,
the crows landing
just to squawk
and fly off
when the 4x4s
speed past your house
on their way to a town
that is no longer there.
It’s beautiful —
the way the diesel fuel
burns and rises
to touch the Armageddon sky.
Beautiful
how it looks like Ohio
but feels like heaven.