when we were crows

when the night blew in at forty thousand feet
and the three of us stood on the wood of the stairs
suspended in lives, aloft in the net as it frayed
with a box of mangos and a dirty kitchen light and
a collection of cigarette lighters which appeared like
those little transparent geckos, and just like them
the lighters were full of juice-life
we would fall, when the tired net snapped
to new homes, other cities, new women – wives, even
new bands, new purposes. when we meet, down there in life
somewhere, we’ll be in new t-shirts, new jeans and new sneakers
this is one of the last times we’ll stand up here like this
shirtless and shoeless, vigilant over nothing.
we talked tales of dead ends, absurdities, mad women
mad women’s mad men, drugs and sounds
the outlandish fiascos of others
we cackled

the evening and its palm trees
and us

suspended already in memory like goldfish in
a plastic bag
largely clueless, largely capable
like most men
crows now, indentured to the Wind Gods
but later to be called home to ourselves, respectively:
Earth and