The fat, the grease,
of these in between days
stills my pen a little

So even if I wrestle
with another monumental year tick,
like the crack of doom

I look at the stuff in the fridge
and shrug

The existential crisis can wait
til the brie is done
and the crackers
have gone soft

The rains come heavy
often every side
and you might dance
like Instagram cushions suggest
or you might just gaze
through eighties music video panes
I ain’t missing you at all

Afterwards though
the sodden ground dilemma,
paths erased
muddied water
that flows regardless
while your boots lose home