in the frame – postwar particulates,

radio static – and my young parents  

smiling in Sunday sunlight with two 

friends unidentified now and forever – 

I want to yell stop a minute,

watch for what’s coming. 

But no they went ahead on,

on trust, or not even that: 

just making the effort to stand there

dressed to the nines in the teeth

of a breeze, the unknowns on the breeze.

This moment here unframed 

is no different, except redemption 

is surely a little closer.

Nightfall arriving, disguising

our gorgeous routine,

conveys us, partners with us,

wedges our photos into the cloud, 

weightless, or not even that:

evaporation already underway.

All we have’s what they had: each other.

© copyright 2025 Ray Waddle

======================================

TAVERN HOURS

Christmas retreats through January slush – 

the tale got told, its body departed. 

The season’s melt, its downhill heed,

heads unhurried to where it will.

===

Here in the aftermath I slip into the pub:

late-night piano, upright bass, noble snare,  

drink orders scribbled in from every corner.

===

Under soft filament we keep a sidelong alertness 

to what we heard for weeks, something skyward

moving everyone’s way, deny it all you want. 

===

Tonight feels lighter, the light lengthening.

Despite solstice fatigue, a fondness wells up, 

an urge to linger, hard to shake in December’s wake, 

deny it all you want. “A round for everyone!” 

I always wanted to shout, and this time I do.

© copyright 2025 Ray Waddle