I mourn the spirit whose body is still here.
It lays on the bed with a rising and falling chest.
He’s not here, nor heaven, nor hell. But somewhere
Between the wind and the skyscrapers with working men in their fifties.
In the line of the horizon where the sky meets the sea.
He’s floating with the hawks above the suburban homes and children’s soccer fields.
He’s flying under the cars that move like molasses on the 405 laughing at the drivers damning
lane 3. I don’t know what he’s waiting for, but his spirit seems like it’s already home.