It's not that I don't have the time

It's 2:15 am on sixth street

somewhere,

with pedi-cabs slowly, slowly

disappearing,

vanishing with their tips;

content to flounder and folly,

tussling through tracked vomit

musking their hair.

It's 2:15 am on sixth street

somewhere,

with mahouts steeped in sweat

& parasites.

Imperial hats & swords & guns

march on through the circular

tracks of the elephants -

diseased, drenched,

creating the stench on the road.

It's 2:15 am on sixth street, somewhere.

No matter the era to pith, delay, and

eventually, wear.

-[m]

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This is part of an ongoing birthday gift from my sister.

Each day I will write a poem inspired by a series of notes she sent me.