Post storm, pre-apocalypse
knees scraped in scarlet,
we collapsed in the aftermath
finding “home” ‘mid the dirt
the debris and the carnage

with stars miming scars
and barely a moon
to console us.

Side lined by syncope
I took a slug
of the stuff that we brewed
from the dandelions.

Loyal to the craft
you wore your poet hat
through the muck and the mire
still piping with poetry.

***

It rained come the morning –
light and forgiving as

we woke to the sound track
of silver gulls.