I sit in the blazing sun of July looking over toward the setting sky
I share my plate of procuitto and cheese with the man to my cross course
He sits in my longitude though far out of reach with a road in between
We see eachother both melting in the air with no sense of awareness for the other
We are, although, but neither of us care or dare to care for the other one there
I move on briskly thinking with my youthful mind of how I'm just as rude as him
We live different lives as one who is nocturnal to one as fresh as the rising sun
But here we sit with opposing tracks lounged back and slouched among our stack
My filthy and writhered teenage hands graze upon the last piece of procuitto that stands
My sweat creases my thick bangs back into rouge curls while the underside of my skin in a slow cooker
My dirty feet kicked on the adjejacbet chair facing the man
As to say I'm not anything but careless of where I lay my soles
He, I'll mannered in his own way as ready as a cooked pot belly pig
Cooked only on one side, since sadly, his chair doesn't swivel
An addict at hands behind closed doors waiting for sevens to triple
But there is enough room for both of us in this world to watch and observe and enjoy
I finish my cup of lukewarm water as he does too and we set our selves on bon voy
