Miracle Workers

 I just want a house, he says, between mouthfuls of birthday cake and gulps of beer, as she sighs in longing. I just want somewhere to breathe. I tried telling them about Penn Station in the morning, of birdsong in Bryant Park and flying down 5th avenue on a creaky bike, tried explaining how these crooked old tenements fit against my joints, but their dreams lie elsewhere just now, there's no telling what mess we're in for yet. I left them early, went home and packed a strange collection of things into a small bag. In my headphones, your voice traveled across my synapses, reminded me there is something left to reach. There's a five-leaf clover and a desert full of shooting stars waiting to help you stretch your limbs.

There's no telling what we're in for yet. 

I'm ready for that to sound like a promise.