Sentiment

Dipped in honey
on a Saturday.
It lifts the color of me
up, up, up.
I will be sunny,
by the end.
I will be bright
by dead of day.

Talk about how
dad wants to be a mailman, 
for the simple good
of letters in boxes.

Talk about all
the drugs that we’re on
and the ones we
should be on again.

Talk about  some people
who left  back then,
over coffee
and 2000‘s T.V.

They hover faraway,
like a memory you only have
because it’s been said
you should have it.

We can’t imagine
not knowing us,
like they do.

Maybe it will
be morning all day,
and their hours, too,
will drip sticky-slow,
like microwaved
breakfast syrup
all over them,
far too sweet
a sentiment,
and they, too,
will talk
about us.