You know, in those moments of in-between,
I often find myself among transit:
Things always suspended between two scenes,
There and back, and the people all seem it.
*
All the biggest, youngest, smallest, oldest
And me, their compatriot, in the air,
We merry clay pigeons of the cruel coldest
Sun, prepped to land just about anywhere.
*
When are we one thing, but then not?
In fact, when did we become something else?
Perhaps we pigeons are what’s left to rot
Once our dear Sun has left her birds to melt.
*
Until that moment, we remain up there
Incomplete members of the whole affair.